The Lightbearers
by SilverRavenStar
Summary: Steampunk AU. When bounty hunter Emma Swan is commissioned by Robert Gold, powerful and mysterious president of the Royal Society of English Magicians, to take down notorious airship pirate Captain Killian Jones, it lands them in a web of political and magical intrigue, dark secrets, and the dangerous London underworld - as well as their unwanted attraction to each other.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

The closer he got, the more it glittered, a great monolith of glass in the westering autumn sun. Swept up in the human tide, he elbowed from side to side so nobody'd knock him over, for in this crowd he wouldn't be bloody getting up again. All of them were drawn as if by a lodestone toward the Crystal Palace reclining magnificently among the lawns of Hyde Park, gulping in the curiosity-seeking masses. Admission to the Great Exhibition at first had cost the ungodly sum of three guineas the day, its marvels only visible to the rich and idle, but as Parliamentary season ended and the wealthy were fleeing London for their country houses, the price had come down. It'd be closing soon, the first fortnight of October, and then what they were after would never be in reach again. So the Captain said, at least, and the Captain was usually right.

As he casually cut the queue, Will Scarlet palmed a shilling from the unguarded purse in front of him, stepped up, and punched it into the box. He took the chit torn off the bronze machine by the sweating clerk, and strolled in through the turnstiles, while the other bloke was still protesting he'd had his fee right here, just then, he swore he'd had it, he hadn't a clue where it could have gone. Will tipped him a regretful salute, then started to trot.

It was all he could do to keep his attention on the business at hand, when his head wanted to spin in every direction at once. Full-grown trees stood inside the Palace's soaring vaults of glass and iron, mysteries and wonders from every corner of the world beckoned alluringly, fountains splashed and sparkled, Turkey carpets the size of houses hung like banners, clockwork automata of every size and shape whirred and ticked and marched, and conjurers were everywhere, doing tricks. Cascades of colored sparks, pulling coins from improbable bodily orifices, some of the better ones even levitating themselves, the sharp ozone scent of aether heavy and golden in the air. Bunch of cut-purse charlatans, Will thought disdainfully. They wouldn't know where to find what he was after – or what it was – if it fell damn on their bloody noggins.

He kept on going, manfully resisting the urge to pinch something off the food-sellers that he passed, even though he was starving. No time for delay. His sole purpose was to get it, and get out. And though every bloody magician in the City of London was like to be on his tail by that point, none of them knew the streets, and the underworld, like Will did. The rendezvous was three days from now, by which point the Captain would have secured the details and the buyer for the item Will was presently liberating. Three days was nuffing.

Will passed the impatient crowds trying to see the Koh-i-Noor diamond, the one they said was the biggest in the world. For a moment his fingers twitched, absurdly tempted, but they had peelers out the arsehole surrounding the booth, all impeccably uniformed with shining brass buttons, all armed with truncheons and nightsticks and pistols, and all with their heads rotating tirelessly in every direction, piggy little eyes scanning for honest thieves such as himself, all of whom they would be delighted to beat the living tar out of. And the Captain had said what they (rather, he) was stealing here was worth ten times that. They'd all be rich men.

_Rich men. _Will played the words around in his head, as he had countless times before. That was what he was clinging to, some impossible phantasm, his last best hope. Born poor as dirt in the crowded, filthy, coal-burning tenements of the East End, parents both dead by the time he was ten, and him with Penny to take care of. She followed him everywhere, whether he worked as a costermonger's brat or as a newsie-lad, scraping by enough to feed her. But the ice on the Thames had been too thin that winter, and his little sister went under, and she was dead too, like everyone else in his world, and which he expected to be shortly. Dead in debtor's prison, dead in the workhouse, dead in the gutter, it didn't make no difference, just that he would, indeed, be quite dead. Either way, he'd had no reason to live, and hadn't cared much neither.

But then, Ana.

Will grimaced. She had to stay out of his head; he had a job to do, and he'd not appreciate the distraction. He supposed he had to thank her, in a sad sort of way. If she hadn't stabbed him in the back, broke his heart, passed herself off as _Lady _Anastasia, married that Russian duke, and faffed off to who-knew-bloody-where, then he wouldn't have met the Captain in a Cheapside tavern (having already been kicked out of the secretive guild of thieves called the Merry Men, back when he was trying to steal enough to give Ana the luxury she wanted, and look how damned well _that _had gone). Wouldn't have signed on aboard the good airship _Jolly Roger, _and hence joined the most notorious crew of pirates in the British Empire. Wouldn't be here stealing the last thing, he hoped, he'd ever have to steal.

He had to be getting close. The booths here were darker and less flashy, sober and drab, the hallmark of true power. So far as Will had heard, the Royal Society of English Magicians had had to have their collective arms vigorously twisted to agree to contribute to the Great Exhibition at all. Secretive bastards, jealously guarding their power and their mystery and the fact that _they _truly ruled England, not Her Majesty the Queen and not Lord John Russell and not any of them. As it had been since aether was discovered in Italy during the Renaissance, and the spymaster Walsingham sent agents to bring this new power back to England for Queen Elizabeth, since it was used to help defeat the Armada, since the School of Night and the Star Chamber and the Invisible College all fought to control and dominate it, pulling strings and intriguing at politics and backroom deals, cutting throats and stealing secrets, magic reigned over Britain. They had even, over the objections of the Church, gotten it taught in Oxford and Cambridge. Not that Will really knew or cared what those were aside from a bunch of bloody toffs and wankers who could be reliably counted on to not take a joke, but it did lend some perspective as to just who he was attempting to rip off. _Turning me into a toad would be the least of it._

There were only a few people at the smallest and plainest booth of all, which was a complication. Nonetheless, he strolled nonchalantly into the line, then into the darkroom beyond, where a few unimpressive artefacts were on display. The Royal Society had evidently wagered that if they made their contribution as deadly dull as possible, everyone would lose interest and go back to the bejeweled dancers of Bengal and the horologists animating the clockwork man and the machine that made moving daguerrotypes – a wager which, from the looks of things, had been exceedingly successful. Not much security, nothing like was at the Koh-i-Noor. Just a bored-looking guard, trying to read a penny dreadful in between making sure that no one had made off with the bloody magical hairpins or whatever it was. That, or so it very much seemed, was it.

Will began to hope that this was going to be easier than he thought. He reached into his right-hand pocket and fingered the marble-sized object there, drew it out, and rolled it around his palm. Then, when the few other visitors had drifted out and the guard was buried behind his penny dreadful again – _The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club, _what sort of stupid title was that? – he threw it.

At once, a choking, complete blackness sprang up, and there was a surprised yelp as the guard fell off his stool. Springing over him, Will pulled the other marble from his left-hand pocket (he had gone over it a dozen times so as not to be a complete nincompoop and get it backwards) and lobbed it, hearing a hiss and crunch as the display-case glass dissolved into dust. Then he vaulted into it, able to see only by the faint golden motes of aether sparking and igniting in the air, as he grappled around, deftly detached the simple clasp, and scooped the item in question – a heavy gold-rimmed compass – into his pocket. Knowing he had only a minute left in the darkness, if that, he jumped out the side, picked the direction least encumbered by crowds, and scarpered.

Shouts of "Stop! Thief!" began to break out behind him, as he reached the Turkey-carpet exhibit, dodged into it, then had a bright idea, got on the floor, and rolled like a haunch of mutton being turned on the spit, whizzing under the feet of startled carpet aficionados who jumped out of the way with exclamations of alarm. Bolted upright on the far side, whipped a hot, lard-dripping bridie out of the hand of a large gentleman about to bite into it, dodged said gentleman's walking-stick, and kept on running until he could see one of the gates up ahead. Hurtled the stile like a track-and-field champion, into the trees of Hyde Park beyond, then into the darkening streets, the red-faced boys just going round with lantern and ladder to fire the gaslamps.

Will forced himself to slow to a walk, navigating the still-crowded lanes and wynds, darting into a shop and waiting as a brigade of peelers ran past shouting, then emerging and switching directions, as around him the folk of Westminster filtered into supper clubs and saloons, card-tables and coffeehouses, theatres and hurdy-gurdy halls. He didn't _think_ anyone had got a particularly good look at him, but it would still behoove him to go underground. Literally.

Someone else, someone else not born and raised here, would have lost their bearings in the dark, mazelike warrens, but Will could have navigated them with both eyes shut. If all else failed, he could always follow the stink of the river, until at last he emerged on the bank, could see Big Ben rising spectral into the underside of the clouds, bells booming the hour over the crooked, cluttered rooftops. But the bridge was just ahead, and there was a door in the piling that led into the tunnel system. Once he got down there he'd be safe enough (well, as safe as one could ever be) and then laugh his arse off at the dimwits going in circles trying to find –

"GOT YOU NOW, BOY!"

Oh, bloody hell.

Will dodged and spun this way and that, backed onto the bridge. Blinking hard, he saw that what he had taken for a passing pack of stray dogs was no such thing. Too bloody big, for a start, and too bloody vicious, bared fangs dripping in slaver, straining at the chains their handlers were barely keeping hold of – wolves. They had sodding _wolves. _Werewolves, if the rumors in the Night Market were anything to credit, but no matter what sort of wolves they were, Will Scarlet did not like them. Especially now, when they were being released to tear him limb from limb.

Jaws snapped an inch away from his throat. He ran to the railing and leapt out into thin air, remembering to point his toes and hold his nose for the twenty-foot drop into filthy, fetid water. Swam madly around to the piling, jerking at the rusted-shut door, even as heavy splashes behind him announced that the wolves had followed him in. Could see the monstrous great beasts paddling closer, dodged again and felt pain red-hot in his shoulder, even as he was wrenching madly at the damned door, he wasn't going to die floating like a turd in the Thames, he was _not, _not like every other ne'er-do-well that was good riddance to bad rubbish –

With a shriek of eroded hinges, the door gave, and Will propelled himself madly through it, the wolves still snapping and snarling at his feet as he fell headlong into the damp blackness of the tunnel, as they kept pawing and growling and clawing with an altogether hideous racket, but couldn't get down after him. He slammed the grate and wedged it firmly fast, but knew it wouldn't hold the buggers long. Though if they were smart, rather than risking their own necks, they'd just set up a stakeout at the tunnel mouth and wait for him to climb out, as he had to eventually. Nets and chains and dragged to the gallows at Tyburn, and heave-ho and so long for poor old Will Scarlet, everybody try not to cry their eyes out over his grave.

Head ringing, Will descended the ladder, blood trickling from his shoulder, until the sounds from above had finally gone quiet and he was well deep in the sewer tunnels. The stench seared the lining off his nose, but you got used to it quick; it wasn't that much worse than the rest of London, really. He'd find a side tunnel, stay out of the reach of the rats (he swore the damned things smelled weakness like sharks), and hope the peelers and their wretched wolves didn't know all the entrances to the tunnels. Could climb out of one on the far side of the city, book it, and hope he still made the rendezvous. Captain would be none too pleased if he didn't.

Three days was starting to sound like a rather unpleasantly long time indeed.

He slept a bit, uncomfortably crammed onto a narrow catwalk above the depths of the black river below, hearing skittering small feet pass every now and then, water dripping down the barnacled walls; he was mostly under the Thames here, never liked being near it for that long. Penny's ghost still watched him with dripping hair and disconsolate eyes, her voice whispering to him from the bitter watches of the night. He contrived a makeshift bandage for his shoulder so it wouldn't keep bleeding all over the damned place. _At least I still have the compass, eh? _he thought resentfully. _Wouldn't want me dying before I could hand it over._

In too much pain to actually drop under for long, he waited until he could hear distant noises from topside, the pipes rattling and whooshing, heralding that it must be morning. Uncurled from his perch and weighed his options. He knew a few tricks down here. He'd make it. Somehow.

As long as he stayed relatively near where he'd gone down, he could mark time by the muffled booms of Big Ben echoing into the ground. But he had to venture deeper to find the sewer-folk, trade them the various other things he'd nicked on his escapade to the Crystal Palace in exchange for food. Queer ghost-white creatures in rags with eyes that had a disturbing habit of looking in different directions, scavenging the treasures that fell into London's sewers; they had a whole world down here. He didn't starve at least, though he was none too comfortable about it, counting off the hours, until it was time to commence the long sunless journey through the tunnels. _Should give me a flag to plant, like a conquerin' hero._

Will splashed and sloshed and swore his way through the muck, smelling worse and worse with every stride, reaching obsessively into his pocket as if in fear the compass would have disappeared between them, tore-up shoulder aching something fierce, thinking that he would be well within his rights to demand double the share of the profits after the ordeal he'd gone through procuring this. Here and there were marks on the sewer walls, indicating how far it was to the various tunnel mouths, and he chose the one that led in the direction of the West India Docks, five miles east along the embankment, where the _Roger _was supposed to be arriving before the day was out. Any other man might have chosen a private and out-of-the-way place to land his airship, given as he _was _the most wanted pirate in the Empire, but then, most men weren't the Captain. He had a long-standing arrangement with the port master that the authorities would either conveniently forget to note his arrival, or every once in a while spot him, mount valiant pursuit, then lose him in the fog, or write down the name – _Red Beauty – _underwhich the vessel had legitimate papers at a Mr. Darling's barrister firm. Either way, it had proved vastly profitable for both the Captain and the embezzling port master. At least till one of them got nabbed, Will supposed. Odds were on the latter.

At last, breathing as if he'd been chased by a bloody train, he wearily hauled himself into the Docks tunnel and climbed up, hand over hand, to the surface. Pushed the door cautiously ajar in expectation of wolves promptly buggering down it to eat his arse, but there were none.

Muttering a hearty prayer of thanks to whichever luckless sod's job it was to be the patron saint of thieves, Will heaved himself out, lay on his back wheezing gently, clutched his pocket once more just to be sure, then rolled over and lurched to his feet. He had emerged under a quay at the busiest port in London, crowded both with the merchant steamships that sailed to Africa, India, the Caribbean, America, and returned fat with trade, and the Royal Navy airships that plied the skies. He had heard that the Captain used to be a Naval officer, in fact, but had deserted for unknown reasons some years past. Surely he had a special animus for them; if one was in range, they would track, capture, and destroy, no matter what. The waters off England were scattered with the wreckage of airships the _Roger _had shot down from the skies.

Will began to trot along the docks, where nobody spared him a second glance. Apparently the peelers hadn't been able to distribute his precise description, though surely the news was getting round that some idiot with a death wish had burgled the Royal Society's exhibition. Likely someone had gotten the chop for it already; they weren't supposed to include objects of actual value where they could possibly be pilfered, so to do this was a bloody massive –

Unless, it occurred to Will suddenly and most unpleasantly, they hadn't made a mistake at all. This all could be, now that he thought it over, a careful and subtle setup. Get the lads to pinch some ultimately worthless bit of junk, nothing the Society would miss, move one of their flunkeys into place as the purported buyer, then spring the trap. Nothing else had sufficed to catch the Captain yet, and though he was usually excellent at sensing when things weren't right, this mission had seemed downright personal to him, as if there was nothing he'd stop at, no risk he wouldn't take. In such a case, he might be overlooking his gut in favor of a chance at revenge.

It was something to mention, that was all. If he could do it without his head being bit off, the Captain not being the most reasonable man when it came to hearing sense. Will ducked into a shabby little pub at the end of the docks, ordered a drink, and settled in to wait, keeping a weather eye on the door. He had just an hour or two more to pass without dying, that was all, though the alcohol on an empty stomach was fast going to his head, and his shoulder was beginning to sniff a bit queer. It hurt when he lifted his right arm, so he used his left instead. Not much longer. There were bandages and unguents on the ship, he'd patch himself up proper then.

Time crawled by like a dead snail. The bells began to call the next hour, and the shadows were getting long. At dusk, the Captain had said, darkness being the state preferred for these sorts of things. Did this qualify as dusk, Will wondered? It was colder outside every time the tavern door banged open, and his eyes were starting to burn from the low, smoky air. This was where he was supposed to wait, though. If they were still coming. If nothing had gone wrong.

Too edgy to stay sitting, he got up and shoved out to the door, standing on the rain-slick stones and listening to the dull drone of airships in the clouds above, emerging like phantoms and gliding down to dock, the great silk zeppelins hissing as the gas was drained. They'd have to be pumped up with a fresh supply before they took off again, but no matter the bother, it was safer than keeping them filled; one stray spark could level the entire Docks. Beneath the zeppelins, which served them in place of sails, the airships were elegant vessels with decks and windows and figureheads, courtly and old-fashioned, more comfortable and refined than the steamships. The aether freighters, the ones that carried barrels of the magical golden dust from the mines up North here to England, were loaded with guns to discourage privateers, while the plainer, faster Navy cruisers were loaded with guns for the same reason. _Though the Roger is fastest, and has the most guns. _Will took a certain pride in that. They'd never yet been defeated in an aerial dogfight. At least until now.

Bloody hell, it was past dark. Where _were_ they? He tried to quash the foreboding in his gut, unable to imagine his future if the _Roger _and her captain had finally met the end of their luck, and he was left here with stolen goods and the entire Royal Society after him. Run and run like hell, defect to the Russian Empire who would be delighted to have an English spy, try not to think about Ana and her bloody Russian duke who were doubtless very fucking happy in their –

"Hsst! _Scarlet!"_

Will jumped nearly out of his skin as a short, stout man in a red woolen cap materialized from the shadows and waved at him: William Smee, the _Roger's _first mate, holding a dark lantern and clearly in a bloody hurry. While he'd never liked Smee all that much, the man having a generally ratty air that seemed to promise any trust in him would be misplaced, he was abjectly grateful to clap eyes on him now, and broke into a run across the cobbles as Smee, hissing at him to be quiet which made more noise than Will did, ushered him down mossy steps to where a small rowboat was waiting, bobbing in the black water. Both of them applying themselves to the oars with vigor, they reversed out, slipped into the wake of a steamship passing the entrance lock, just barely avoided being crushed as the lock rolled shut behind them, and sculled into the fast-running Thames. Neither of them said anything, knowing how sound carried and focused on their escape, until they hauled up near Greenwich Pier, tied the boat, and waited tensely.

A few moments later, Will heard the thrumming overhead, and glanced up just in time to see a low-flying, spectral black shape block out the chilly stars. A rope ladder dropped, and Smee bolted for it first, naturally. Will jumped up behind him, feeling the airship already starting to lift off again, so that he was swinging ten and then twenty and thirty feet above the ground as he kept climbing, determinedly not looking down; heights were not his especial favorite thing in the world. But the dark bulk of the _Roger _loomed reassuringly above him, closer and closer even as London continued to fall away below, and soon he was scrambling up over the side, grasping hold of the rail, and somersaulting at full length on the deck.

He lay there, gulping air, thinking that he'd very much like his supper and his bunk now, until another shadow fell over him in the gloom; they'd fly dark until they were well clear of the city. Boots measured a steady pace up to his head, then stopped, and the Captain looked down at him as if Will were a mildly interesting bit of rubbish they'd dredged up in a fishing net. "Scarlet."

"Cap'n." Will got himself pointed more or less the right way up, still panting. "Got it."

A grin curled the Captain's mouth, lending him even more of a debonair, roguish air than usual. He was that sort of man, the sort that made all the ladies (and not a few of the blokes) stop dead in their tracks: lean and dark-haired and blue-eyed, with a penchant for long leather jackets and sheer black shirts and inadequately buttoned vests, rings and necklaces and kohl, high boots and the basket-handled sword he always wore low on his hip, the bloody walking definition of the word "swashbuckler." But though he had the look of a pretty boy, nobody called him that to his face. In place of his missing left hand, the Captain wore the lethally sharp steel appendage that gave him his name: Hook. He could smile and charm you and dice with you and drink with you and pick you bloody clean of your valuables before you had the foggiest what was going on, but you insulted or crossed or challenged him at your peril. Not if you didn't want to find it buried between your eyes. So Will had been told, at least, but not being a shy sort by nature, he rarely held back when he had something to say, and hence he and the Captain tended to sauce each other something fierce. It was an unspoken agreement, though he always knew where the boundaries were. He thought Hook liked him, a bit. Much as the bastard liked anyone.

"So," Hook said, stepping closer and holding out his good hand. "I'll take it now."

For an instant Will was tempted to refuse, or at least fill the Captain in on the trouble he'd gone through to get it, but wanted food and sleep more than he wanted to spend the night in the brig, and fished it out of his pocket. "I'm fine as well, thanks for asking."

Hook cocked a sardonic eyebrow. "We'd have all been heartbroken if you fell in the line of duty, I'm sure. Grave in the Abbey, a week of national mourning, the lot. Eh?"

"I'm not that fussed, I'd take a knighthood and call it done," Will shot back. "Sir William Scarlet, the ladies would be swoonin' left and right. Permission to leave duty, sir?"

"Granted," Hook said with a careless wave, tucking the compass into the pocket of his vest – but not before covetously stroking his thumb over it, staring down at it as if it was precisely what he'd been waiting for all this time. And once more, Will had to wonder what exactly, if anything, he knew about this entire damned affair. If they _were_ still going to sell it, if they were going to be rich men, or if perhaps everyone involved had no clue what was really happening save the Captain. _Double-crosser double-crosses everyone, likely I'm no bloody different._

In which case, Will thought as he trudged off to the crew's quarters, glancing back at the dark silhouette still standing by the rail as they climbed into the clouds, they'd all best take especial care. The Captain had outrun and outsailed all sorts of storms in his day, but whatever this was, whatever it meant, whether they'd survive thumbing the Empire's most powerful and dangerous men straight in the bloody eye, one such as they had never seen was coming.

And it was coming now.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

As she disembarked from the hansom cab, Emma Swan pulled her hood closer, pressed a few coins on the driver clearly more than anxious to leave, and crossed to the black iron gates that loomed in the mist-wet morning, the sumptuous brick estate waiting down the drive beyond. When she first told him to take her to Kensington Palace, he laughed disbelievingly – then, realizing she was serious, spent the trip shooting her dour glances from his perch on the running board, clearly wondering just how dangerous she could be. Considerably, come to that, though not to him. She'd come only lightly armed, knowing that she would have to relinquish it before being allowed into the magician's inner sanctum, but there was still a pearl-handled derringer strapped to her thigh (no proper gentleman would be looking _there_) and a stiletto in her sleeve. She supposed it was best to demonstrate to him what he was paying for.

The gates swung open at her approach, and Emma strode up the drive, holding her skirts daintily out of the puddles, until she stepped under the massive white-columned portico. By personal appointment of Her Majesty, this was now the official London residence of the President of the Royal Society of English Magicians – perhaps not an entirely unqualified honor, as the Queen was known to harbor strong feelings against Kensington and the repressive, tyrannical regime that her mother the Duchess of Kent and Sir John Conroy had enforced upon her there during her childhood – and Emma rang the bell, then waited. This wasn't the strangest place she'd been in the course of her career, or the most dangerous, but she'd have to mind her manners.

After a moment, the door opened – again with no discernible human intervention – revealing a long, dim, lushly carpeted entrance foyer, an unlit chandelier draping crystal branches from the white-sculpted ceiling. The design tended toward the baroque and rococo, ornate and elegant and gold-filigreed, though most of it was surprisingly dull and dusty. It had the feeling of an old, shut-up museum, the air heavy and quiet, a grand staircase leading off into the gloom. Various objects were hung on the walls or displayed in glass cases. Her patron – not surprising, given his position – was clearly a connoisseur of the rare and unusual, and Emma glanced from side to side, casually examining the knick-knacks. There seemed to be nothing else to do, just now.

At last, she heard footsteps, and a young maid in a blue dress emerged, caught sight of Emma, and dropped a brief, correct curtsy. "Welcome to Kensington, miss. May I take your cloak?"

"I suppose." Emma held out her arms. "Is the butler ill?"

"There is no butler, miss." The maid looked wry, opening a closet and stowing the cloak inside; a strong smell of camphor floated out. "Only me. The master is not a man for company."

"I noticed." Emma waited as the maid picked up a candelabra, then led her to the back of the house. She wondered if the young woman had to tend this entire estate by herself, as a reclusive magician was likely not the most fastidious of housekeepers, but she hadn't come for small-time gossip with the help. Then they stepped through into an expansive, appropriately magisterial study, with a fire crackling in the hearth, dark mahogany paneling, shelves of gilt-stamped books, and the heavy scrolled desk behind which a man sat, back turned to her. He wore his greying-brown hair long and shaggy, in defiance of the custom for fashionable short coifs, and if it were not for the expensively cut and tailored suit (Savile Row beyond a doubt) Emma would have taken him for another servant. Or maybe she wouldn't have. He exuded an indefinable, exquisite, more than slightly dangerous aura of power and competence. Which, considering everything, must have been exactly what he wanted.

The maid cleared her throat. "Mr. Gold, sir? The lady you sent for, she's here."

For a moment, still no response. Then he spun his chair around suddenly, startling both women, and flashed an alligator smile. A man of late middle age, hooded brown eyes and slightly hooked nose, long fingers steepled before his face. "Very good. Then why don't you run along and. . . read a book, or whatever it is you like to do?"

"You should let me open the curtains," the maid informed him. "Get some light in here."

"I don't want any light in here. Leave them shut, or I'll turn you into a toad."

Even Emma had to blink, though by the tolerant, mildly exasperated look on the maid's face, this threat was a common staple in her employer's repertoire. "I think it would be nice," she persisted. "You have such a lovely collection in here. See the art better, all the – "

"You are _excused."_

The maid bobbed another curtsy, not without a bit of an eye-roll, and let herself out, as Emma slipped into the chair in front of the desk, folding her gloved hands in her lap. She waited as that gimlet eye fell on her, and he sized her up, apparently trying to decide if she was what he'd expected. Then he said, "You've proven rather hard to get hold of, dearie."

"I don't deal with subordinates." Emma remained unmoved. Every time messengers had dropped round with cryptic summons, refusing to tell her who they were working for or why, she had promptly sent them packing. When they offered to set up a meeting, she declined again unless it was with whoever was truly soliciting her services. By dint of this method, ignoring all bribes and threats and pleas to the contrary, she had finally learned that the shadowy individual who had an interest in hiring her was none other than Robert Gold himself, the President of the Royal Society of English Magicians and the most powerful man in the country, if not the entire Empire. Not an opportunity to pass up, but one to treat with caution. "I've learned that lesson."

Gold smiled. "Indeed. You have. . . quite a reputation, Miss Swan. Hard to earn and easy to lose, as the saying goes. So, then, now that we have finally caught each other, I have a business proposition for you."

"I'd hope so."

"There is a job for which only the best and most successful will do," Gold went on, clearly buttering her up. "The mark is most dangerous and subtle. A particular vexation, a thorn in the side of both myself and Her Majesty's realms for some time. Several days ago, an associate of his succeeded in brazenly robbing the Royal Society's booth at the Great Exhibition, and in taking an. . . object. I want it returned, make no mistake, but I am most interested in putting this villain's reign of discord and misery out of business, and swinging him by the neck for his gross and innumerable crimes. All my lesser means have failed, so I have decided to resort to a more direct approach. If you play your part, the compensation will be considerable."

"Good. I don't come cheap."

"Most things worth pursuing in life don't," the magician agreed. He got up, opened his cabinet, and removed a decanter of fine brandy, pouring them an aperitif apiece; Emma took the glass and faked an elegant sip. She never drank anything a client offered her, especially before they paid. She hadn't risen to become one of the most notorious bounty hunters in London's underworld by accident, and had made plenty of enemies along the way. Black Swan, they called her. Some were surprised to learn that she was a woman, whereas others used it signally to their advantage, and while she thought that poisoning was likely off the table at the moment, it didn't do to get out of the habit. Trusting anyone was a quick way to fall fast and far and hard.

Apparently not noticing her subterfuge, Gold returned to his chair and took a pull of his own drink. "So then," he went on. "You will be wondering the identity of your target."

"I was."

"Does the name Killian Jones mean anything to you?"

"I'm afraid it doesn't."

"Understandable. Very few people know him as such, and I don't doubt he's made sure it stays that way. You may, however, have heard of his more colorful moniker – Captain Hook."

At that, Emma had to work to keep the surprise off her face. Anyone who had spent any time in her circles had heard of the infamous pirate, star of countless urban legends, rumored to have once tried – and almost succeeded – to steal the Crown Jewels from the Tower, especial scourge of the Royal Navy, with a trail that spanned the black markets and seedy backwaters of Europe, working as a mercenary for whoever had the means to pay him and ripping off the rest. There must have been a dozen death warrants out for him by now, and while Emma was well acquainted with the nature of lurid gossip, knew that he'd likely actually only done perhaps half of what was credited (or discredited) to him, that still made him a formidable foe, and not one to underestimate out of hand. "You. . . you want me to take down _Captain Hook?"_

"That is indeed what I am proposing, dearie." Gold took another placid sip. She could hear the faint burr of his Glaswegian working-class upbringing, almost but not entirely polished away by years and years among London's most elite circles. Interesting story, he had. Something like hers: rising from nothing and fighting to become something, the best in his field there was, and never looking back to see what had been lost along the way. Doubtless the rock-ribbed Royal Society had never quite gotten over the humiliation of a self-made Scot, the son of the village drunkard rather than Lord High So-and-So, becoming their president, but considering the heights of power and influence they'd attained under his leadership, such complaints were just as likely kept to themselves. "Why? Do you fear you're not up to it?"

"Not at all." Emma gave him a demure little smile. "Only that, as I said, it's going to cost you."

"I am fully prepared for that contingency, Miss Swan, and believe that, as _I _said, you will find my offer more than generous."

"How much are we talking?"

"I prefer not to reveal sensitive details in preliminary negotiations. Terribly sorry."

Emma raised an eyebrow, taking his unspoken meaning just fine. She changed the subject. "So what do you want done with him? I'm a bounty hunter, not a contract killer."

"Fear not, dearie, you won't be getting your exquisite hands dirty. . . beyond the usual, that is. I want him alive, and that's all you have to do for me. Track him down, capture him, regain possession of the artifact his accomplice stole from the Exhibition, and I'll handle the rest. The Empire has no interest in giving him a swift and easy death. An example must be made."

"You're the most powerful magician in Europe, and you and all your friends can't catch him?"

"_As _the most powerful magician in Europe," Gold said, with a slight but sharp stress on it, "I have far better uses of my time, and demands on it, than to devote myself obsessively to the apprehension of one miscreant – however much I would like to. Besides, the pirate is not without a certain low cunning. One does not stay one step ahead of the authorities for as long as he has without some guile to match his luck, and he has become rather adept at seeing my fingerprints on things, alas. It's time for some new blood."

"If that's the case, what makes you think this will be any different?"

"Why, Miss Swan, because you are a _professional." _Gold grinned, as if it was a private joke shared between them. "You are, aren't you? I could look into the details of your previous cases, which I am sure would be riveting reading, as well as providing me with priceless evidence on the state of the London underworld and who else, apart from Hook, I might do well to keep an eye on. But I am sure you have done nothing to prejudice the interests of the Royal Society in the past, smart woman like you, so whyever would you start now?" He leaned forward. "I don't believe you realize that you are in a position to name your price. I'll pay it. And whatever you do name, it's likely already higher than that. In addition, once you complete this job, you will be a national heroine. _Lady _Emma Swan, how does that sound? Or does _Duchess _tempt you more? Your needs will be seen to for the rest of your life, you can get out of this line of work – it doesn't age well, I imagine – and, ah, yes, haven't I heard something about a son?"

Emma stared at him, finally and completely thrown for the first time in the conversation. She supposed it was useless to ask how he knew that, but for obvious reasons, she had always kept Henry's existence strictly secret. She had been just seventeen, a loner girl doing her best to stay alive, and Neal Cassidy had been several years older, a fellow thief who promised to teach her the tricks of the trade. For a few months they'd been unstoppable, pulling off small-time heists all across London, and he'd taught her other things as well. Then one night he never showed, left her holding several pieces of stolen jewelry, whereupon she was caught by the constables and taken to a ladies' prison and workhouse. She didn't know if they'd have actually hanged her, and never found out, due to discovering not long later that she was going to have a baby, and no matter whatever other extremities she had to endure, they were too Christian to hang a pregnant woman, of course.

She gave birth to Henry in the Church Penitentiary Association for the Reclamation of Fallen Women, a charity run by William Ewart Gladstone, MP for the University of Oxford, _fallen woman _being apt for a description of who she was then. Given a pittance of money and urged to seek decent employment as a stenographer or a factory-girl or a laundress, but any of those occupations would buy Henry the same childhood she had: cold and deprived and miserable, growing up unwanted and alone in a country orphanage run by a Church of England parson and his spinster sister, who never missed an opportunity to remind the children of how loathsome they were in the sight of God, who might have saved their souls but destroyed everything else. She didn't want that, she couldn't stand him having that, and she didn't give a damn about being decent, not any more.

So she did what she had to do. Lady Regina Mills was a childless aristocrat whose family fortune was almost gone, who needed to repair her ancestral estate in the West Riding of Yorkshire, and who agreed to take in Henry and raise him as her own in exchange for being well paid for it. Henry had a good life, an excellent education at the local grammar school, all the opportunities and all the doors old money could open for him. Emma visited him at least once a year, but never for very long. She had to stay in work constantly to pay his boarding fee, and while he knew that she was his mother and that she would have him with her if she could, he was for obvious reasons more comfortable with Lady Regina, the woman he had lived with since birth. She had always cherished the foolish hope in the back of her mind that one day she could earn enough to come and take him home with her, not remain embroiled in a dangerous and unpredictable life as a bounty hunter, but as long as it made her the sort of money that it did, she couldn't see a way to stop. Not until. . . an opportunity like this fell into her lap. She should be snatching it up with both hands. Do it, and everything she had ever wanted was hers. Just like Gold promised.

"Yes," Emma said weakly, trying to disguise how much he'd rattled her armor. "You may have."

"I thought so," the magician said. "It is a particular tribulation to be parted from our children. I have missed my own son these many years, and if I can help you be reunited with yours, surely that cannot be ill-done for either of us. What do you say, Miss Swan?"

Emma hesitated. Clients would say all sorts of things if they thought it would convince her to take the commission, but there was an unexpected note of raw honesty in Gold's voice that took her aback. Not that she expected the President of the Royal Society to do anything other than utterly wreck her life if she failed in this, but there was no reason she should think so. The Black Swan never fell prey to the same weaknesses as her peers. No mercy. No compassion. No love.

She swallowed, trying to wet her dry throat. "Mr. Gold, sir," she said formally. "I will endeavor to the utmost of my ability to do what you desire."

"Capital. Truly capital." He made a flourishing, theatrical gesture, and a scroll of parchment unrolled from nowhere, complete with a red-feathered quill which he handed to her. "Sign there, my dear, and what I expect will be a long and fruitful business partnership may commence."

Emma read the cramped, ornate cursive as quickly as she could; she'd never seen such a detailed contract, and most of her agreements were of the handshake variety anyway, her clients not being the sort interested in leaving paper trails. But the Royal Society, like the rest of the government, was a fiend for the bureaucracy; likely this form had to be copied and filed in triplicate and stamped by the proper department twice extra for good measure. The terms seemed standard enough. She consenting that she would bring to justice one Captain Killian Jones, herein referred to by his alias, Hook, and they consenting that they would take all reasonable measures to assist her in so doing, including a compensation for success totaling. . .

Emma blinked. Had to read that part over and then over again, terrified that she was dreaming. Had never seen a sum that size, had never even thought there was so much. She could live the rest of her life in high style on it, even leave some for Henry's children, perhaps invest it and make still more. Would be made a Peeress of the Realm, could appoint a representative to voice her interests in the House of Lords – all this for a penniless orphan from Boston, in Lincolnshire. The bounty was almost unbelievable, a small voice warning her that that which looked too good to be true oftentimes and bitterly was, and that those who placed their trust in magicians were nearly as unwise as those who placed it in princes – or anyone, really. But if she caught Killian Jones, Gold would have no choice but to deliver on it, and she wanted it. More than anything.

So then. It was, for once, perfectly straightforward. She had to catch him.

Not bothering to read the rest, Emma leaned forward and without a second thought, signed.

* * *

Once the magician had supplied her with a certified promissory note for the amount of her initial fee, and informed her that she would start to receive messages which it would be to her advantage to follow up on, she took her leave, and Emma rode in another cabriolet to the Bank of England on Threadneedle-street, where she changed the note into sterling, deposited most of it, and kept the rest for startup money. She supplied the Bank with enough business that they all recognized her on sight and respectfully called her "madame," and of course, discretion being a cardinal virtue in their line of work, had never asked any questions about where it came from. There was no way she was going to keep her money in her mattress, where it could be stolen or the place burned to the ground at any time, and having the Bank check the guarantees of those who paid her in paper promises was an excellent way to weed out the frauds. Indeed, she'd worked for them a few times, chasing down delinquent creditors and unlucky speculators and anyone else who incurred the Old Lady's wrath, though she had taken care that they did not know that the Black Swan was the same woman as the one who stood well-dressed and perfectly well-behaved in the lobby to write out her scrips and balance her accounts. It was a nuisance, but there was certainly no way she was trusting anyone else to do it.

Financials concluded, Emma made her way out of the City to her flat in Southwark, which was on the third floor of a shabby old brownstone. She didn't want to tie herself to anywhere too costly in case the work suddenly dried up, and felt more at home in the decrepit, dark, broken-cobbled lanes of Southwark than she did in any of the high-society gilded birdcages she sometimes orbited through during her jobs. Most of them stayed in the underworld, and that suited her fine, though she supposed if she _was_ actually going to become a duchess at some point, she might have to be open to the idea of change. It wasn't as if she would actually miss this place. She never had. Every time she left somewhere, she ran and never looked back.

Inside, Emma shut the door, worked the locks, and shucked her heeled boots. Not that she was planning to stay for long. Gold had given her a tight deadline – three months – saying that he wanted Hook captured by Christmas, or her fee would be halved. If in six months she still hadn't caught him, it would drop to a quarter, and thirty days after that, be terminated completely. She knew that if that happened, it wouldn't just be chalked up as an unsuccessful investment, him shrugging, writing off his loss, and moving on to find another bounty hunter. If that happened, she'd be as just much the Royal Society's enemy as the pirate, Gold rendering her unemployable and unwanted anywhere she turned. After a life of it, knowing that this was it, make or break, the prospect clutched her throat shut.

Emma padded into her bedroom, a drafty garret jammed kitty-corner against the front room, and stripped off her wet clothes. At not quite thirty, she was still a considerably attractive woman, with all her white teeth and long, lustrous blonde hair, wide green eyes, ample curves, and a trim, hourglass figure. Her skin was kept fashionably pale, though more from her long nights and underground days than any particular effort on her part, and she did not yet want to smash the mirror or turn to stone when she looked into it, so the effect remained satisfactory. But the proof was in the pudding, and she knew that the overwhelming majority of her marks found it satisfactory as well. That usually tended to be the last thing they ever did, at least until they woke confused, cuffed, and in custody of whoever had been looking for them in the first place.

Emma took the comb off the washstand and pulled out the knots in her hair, rinsing it with the rosemary-chamomile tincture that kept it sleek and shiny, shivering as she poured the cold water into the porcelain basin. Took a cloth and scrubbed everywhere else, with the fine-milled tallow soap she kept for such purposes, then dried briskly.

She was almost finished when there was a sharp rap on her door, so she pulled on a dressing gown and went to investigate. But there was no one there except for a thick parchment envelope which had been pushed through the letter slot, sealed with a fat dollop of golden wax. Opened, it proved to be a dossier of public records, bulletins from the London _Times, _and copies of forms and warrants pertaining to the infamous criminal Killian Jones – more information than she'd expected Gold to be forthcoming with, in fact, and she raised an eyebrow. Maybe he actually meant to cooperate with her in good faith, which would significantly ease the process.

Sinking onto the divan, still in her dressing gown, Emma flipped through the pages. Killian Jones, former Lieutenant of His Majesty's Royal Navy – he'd deserted in 1837 at the age of eighteen, when King William died and his teenage niece Victoria ascended the throne. It seemed to be related to the death of his brother, Captain Liam Jones, who had served as a decorated commander for near ten years and never offered anything but good and loyal duty to the Empire; clearly, the fraternal apple had fallen very far from the tree. The faithless younger brother had stolen the Navy airship of the line under his command and repurposed it as a pirate vessel, quickly rising to prominence as an irksome but fairly inconsequential thief and brigand, not much different from the usual class of scum and villainy.

Here, however, the record went mysteriously silent. There were a few scattered notices reporting that the pirate had been spotted here or there, and concerned citizens should do their patriotic duty by turning him in for a substantial reward, but apart from a mention of him being convicted in absentia as a traitor for smuggling weapons to the rebels during the 1848 revolts, nothing else. The uprisings had been swiftly quashed before they could overturn Europe, and pardons generally offered to those who had escaped with their lives, but now, three years later, the conviction for Killian Jones still stood. Which hinted someone high in the government had a personal hatred for him, and Emma was wagering her best petticoat that she knew who.

Still, though. There was nothing to explain how a young, disaffected ex-lieutenant had become the dreaded Captain Hook, just why Gold loathed him so much, or where she should even start looking for him. Going through the articles mentioning his appearances, however, it struck her that he was turning up in London quite a bit more often than would be expected for the Empire's bête noire, which suggested either that he was stupendously arrogant about not being caught – or that he had some kind of arrangement with the port authorities somewhere.

This was usually how her cases began, with a hunch. Putting the papers down, Emma returned to her room and changed into a clean dress. It was getting late in the day, but that suited her well enough; where she went was usually after hours and after dark, and she was used to being out long into the night. Not without due precautions, of course. Apart from her derringer and stiletto, she carried an ivory-handled, long-barreled revolver, extra powder and shot, a hunting knife, a silver throwing star, an ampule of holy water, and a vessel of salt. Emma had only crossed paths with the darkest denizens of London's underworld once before, and devoutly hoped she never did again, but she always expected the worst and therefore prepared for it.

Dress, cloak, bonnet, and boots accounted for, Emma collected her parasol (the tip was also silver and very sharp, to be used in a pinch) and departed, crossing the river back into Westminster, through Piccadilly Circus and into Marylebone, to Harley Street and its long march of drab, respectable Georgian rowhouses. Each was the model of discretion, with only small signs in the windows to advertise that this was the heart of London's medical practice, with physicians trained to treat all sorts of disorders – from the mundane to the magical to, it was rumored, the monstrous. Emma mounted the steps of one such establishment – _A. Hopper, M.D., University of Edinburgh _tidily hand-calligraphed under the bell. She ignored it, let herself in, and down the hall. He'd still be seeing patients. Renowned as London's expert on hysterical and nervous disorders, he did his genuine best to treat the mostly young women who were referred to him. If he failed, Emma knew, they were sent to the asylum. It was rare they came out again.

She took a seat on the davenport, waiting until the last patient of the day had departed, and Dr. Hopper wandered out. A tall, storklike, gentle man with receding ginger hair and round spectacles, clad in his usual tweed suit with the elbow patches and rumpled cravat, he was just locking his office door and humming tunelessly when Emma stood up. "Hello, Archie."

"Miss Sw – _Emma?"_ He spun around, gawking. "I didn't see you! What are you doing here?"

"The usual." Emma plucked the key from his hand and smiled beguilingly. Archibald Hopper had lending privileges at libraries, archives, and universities across London, and those where he didn't, he knew someone who did. Whenever she needed a paper trail started, he was her man, and one of the very few that she trusted. He knew that his patients were often neither insane nor dangerous, and Emma knew it as well, but they often ran into difficulties making the women's families and the asylum doctors agree. She, remembering what it was like being held against her will for someone else's crime, had helped spirit many of the young women away in the night, to new lives in France or Flanders or anywhere else their families could not find them. In exchange for this service, Archie helped with documents and research and on occasion, always protesting vociferously, would supply her a patient's records. He said it was a breach of medical ethics and the Hippocratic oath, but Emma reminded him that in her view, so was what the asylum did to the young women, and she could stop helping them get away if he was so concerned about it. That was usually sufficient to shut him up.

In any event, realizing that his hot supper was going to have to wait, Archie let out a resigned sigh. "What do you need, Emma?"

"This." She produced one of the furled, yellowing notices from her sleeve. "I want to know what happened to it."

Archie took it, pushed his spectacles up his nose, and squinted nearsightedly at the smudged black type. "HMS _Jewel of the Realm," _he read, sounding baffled. "Formerly under the command of Captain Liam Jones, tragically deceased in the line of duty during the 1837 Canadian Rebellion. Stolen by Lieutenant Killian Jones (dishonorably discharged) and placed under pirate colors. Further fate unknown. Emma, what are you – "

"It's for a job. I want you to see if you can find out if she's sailing under a new name, if – Lieutenant Jones – scuppered her somewhere and got a different ship, and if so, what. The records would be in the Admiralty, wouldn't they? In Whitehall?"

Archie rubbed a hand across his face, still looking astonished. "I don't precisely have an occasion to go strolling into the Admiralty every day, Emma."

"I'm sure you can think of something." She fluttered her eyelashes a bit. Despite his line of work, Archie was a confirmed bachelor and got exceedingly flustered every time anything female expressed the remotest non-professional interest in him. This was professional, of course, but she suddenly had an idea. "If I was the wife of a Naval officer, and I was having some sort of hysterical episode, you might have to go to the Admiralty to inquire where my husband was posted. It's not inconceivable that he could have served on the _Jewel _fifteen or so years ago, before it turned pirate. Then they'd have to open that file."

Archie raised an eyebrow. "Notwithstanding, of course, the minor fact that you _aren't _the wife of a Naval officer."

"Nobody has to know that, do they?"

"Then what? Am I supposed to just pluck a name out of the air and hope they had the good fortune of firstly, existing, secondly, serving in the Royal Navy, and thirdly, on this particular ship? Which appears to be a scandal of some sort, so when I ask after it, they'll – "

"I doubt the pen-pushers at Whitehall are going to be terribly interested in one lost ship from a decade and a half ago. And as for a name, we _do _have one." She crossed her arms. "Jones."

Archie's dubious expression didn't alter. "As in the dead captain and the dishonorably discharged lieutenant? Which one are they more likely to believe you're married to?"

"That's not as important. Just that you get a look at the file. And besides, it's not as if I'm looking for someone named Rumplestiltskin. You can sneeze in London and blow away half a dozen Joneses, so the odds are good that there was at least one other aboard. If not, you can always claim that you must have been mistaken. Understood?"

"I suppose so." The doctor sighed. "I'm still not sure about this, Emma, but for you, I'll try. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to run down to the cellars and see to – "

"The cellars?" Emma frowned at him. "See to what?"

"Ah. . ." Archie's face froze. "Minor, very minor, nothing to – "

"Is there something down there? Some_one?"_

"No, of course not, certainly not." His eyes skated in either direction, flatly belying his attempted nonchalance. "I don't want to keep you from your errands, you must be very – "

"Archie." Emma slid sideways, planting herself in his path. "Tell me what you're doing, right now."

"I. . ." He blew out a breath. "It is a matter of treatment for one of my patients, which is all I feel obligated to disclose at the moment. Now, if you would kindly – "

"You're keeping a woman in the _cellar?"_ She had never taken him for the type, and jerked back in revulsion, suddenly wondering if she had been wrong to trust him. "Archie, I can't believe – "

"Shh!" He glanced around, as if in fear someone else might have heard her speaking, but his secretary had left as well, and they were alone. "It's not what you think. It's very delicate, and very important that you tell no one, do you understand?"

"Then what is it?"

He eyed her suspiciously for a moment more. Then sighed deeply, and crossed the room to the bookcases on the far side. Reached in to trip some hidden catch, and waited as a counterweight swung and the bookcases floated up as if weightless, revealing a dark passage beyond, steps that led underground. Clearly realizing that he was not going to get away with his secret any longer, he sighed again and beckoned her in, then stepped in after her, pressing the catch and lowering the bookcases back into place, engulfing them in near-total darkness.

Emma descended step by step, hands blindly outstretched, until her eyes adjusted and she reached the bottom, could make out the dim contours of an underground passage. Water dripped, the ground was soft and damp underfoot, and her voice echoed eerily. "Archie, what in the. . .?"

Ducking out of the stairwell after her, brushing dirt off his bald spot, he pressed a finger to his lips, took an oil lantern off a peg, and struck a match to light it. Then they set off along the passage, around a corner and then another, somewhere deep under the foundations of the house. Then emerged in a small, low-ceilinged room – a priest hole, Emma could have sworn, although she'd never have imagined that the staunchly Presbyterian, Lowland Scot Archibald Hopper would harbor a secret desire to help fugitive Catholics (especially disliked by the Royal Society due to the Pope having condemned magic and all who wielded it as servants of Lucifer) leave the country. Even after the demonstrations earlier in the year, when Pius had tried to proclaim England once more Catholic in hopes of saving its soul from demons, and the people remembered just why they hated Popery so much. But this, to be sure, was not a priest. Indeed, a young woman, dark-haired, wearing a tattered paisley dress and –

"Archie!" Emma grabbed the doctor's arm, her other hand flying to her silver throwing star. "Christ! She's a wolf!"

The young woman flinched and bit her lip, but said nothing to deny it. She couldn't. It was the eyes that always gave away the children of the moon: feral, golden, black-pupiled, shining with their own faint, lucent light. She looked harmless enough, but Emma's first (and thankfully to date, last) encounter with one of her kind had sharply taught the fallacy of that idea. And Archie was just keeping her here, completely unchained, as if –

"I know," the doctor said hastily. "You – you can put that away, Emma, we don't need it."

"You _know?"_ Emma blinked at him, stunned. She didn't put the throwing star away entirely, but eased her grip somewhat. "And you think letting her roam around is a good idea?"

"She is one of my patients." Archie assumed that stubbornly noble look he got sometimes. "If the asylum knew about her, they would. . ."

"Drag her off and put her down," Emma finished grimly. "No questions asked."

"Or they'd make me join them." The young woman spoke for the first time, shuddering. "They're recruiting us, you know. The Royal Society. They want to control us, use us for their purposes. But I – I'm not a killer. I'm not!"

"I know," Archie said gently. "Remember, we've discussed this. There is a way to control this, to treat it, and we'll find it."

"Archie. . ." Emma frowned at him. "Don't give her false hope. There's no cure for lycanthropy."

"Not if you're born a wolf, no. As she was." Archie tilted his head at his patient. "But if you're attacked by one, you can avoid turning if you're treated before the next full moon. Not to mention, there are plenty of examples in the case literature of werewolves who were able to control their actions both as human and wolf. Ruby – this is Ruby, by the way, Ruby Lucas – Ruby, Emma, Emma, Ruby – is just scared. She doesn't want to hurt anyone."

"I'm sure she doesn't. But how do you explain that?" Emma indicated the deep scratches and scars in the cast-iron grate on the far side of the room, which was apparently used to contain (or try to contain) Ruby during her transformations. That and the rest of the torn-up corridor, making her wonder if the wolf could climb the stairs and rip down the bookshelf, possibly escape from the house into London. "Archie. . . I know you want to believe the best of people. But she – "

"What am I supposed to do? Let the asylum kill her or let the Royal Society turn her into a slave?" The doctor set his jaw. "People can change, Emma. People can be rehabilitated. That's what Ruby is. She's a person. The wolf just happens to be part of her – a wild and dangerous part, yes, but we all have our flaws."

"I hope your insistence doesn't get your throat torn out," Emma said with a sigh, then glanced guiltily at the young woman. "I mean – no offense."

"None taken." Ruby fiddled with a thread in her sleeve. "I used to have a red cloak, it was magical, it stopped me from turning, but I don't know what happened to it. Now I turn and I don't know how to control it, and I. . . Archie, have I killed anyone?"

The doctor hesitated – just long enough for Emma, who had one small skill that was a boon in her line of work, an ability to tell when someone was lying – to taste the untruth in his words. "No. Of course not."

Emma bit her tongue, sensing that her correction would not be welcomed, but at the same time, not particularly comfortable about being in a confined, dark, underground space with a killer wolf, even considering her bristling arsenal of weaponry. She _had_ heard that the Royal Society and the Metropolitan Police were using werewolves now, and that this was in fact the only legitimate occupation under which a child of the moon could remain in London. There were packs that ran wild, mostly in desolate, remote areas such as the Welsh marches and the Yorkshire moors, but there were few places in the British Isles where the creatures would be welcomed, no matter how much of a productive citizen they were in their human form for twenty-nine out of thirty days of the month. For that one night – and more, if you could shift at will as it was rumored the older wolves could – the danger was too great. As a result, trapped in the filth and fog and squalor of the city, bedeviled by the presence of silver and iron, and brutalized by the masters who saw them as wild beasts deserving of the same colonial savagery, most wolves were insane, opium or absinthe-addicted, and soon dead anyway.

At the thought, a small, unwelcome prick of sympathy for Ruby managed to worm through, touching Emma like a cold finger on the back of her neck. She shrugged it away; she hadn't come here to help Archie on another of his mercy missions. Maybe if he successfully tracked down the new name and whereabouts of the _Jewel, _she'd owe him a favor, but not until then. Gold and his job – his _paid _job – came first. Ruby would just have to try to avoid killing anyone else until then. Shut up down here was likely the safest place for her and everyone.

"Well," Emma said, clearing her throat, as Archie appeared inclined to sit down and stay a while. "I'll just be going, then. I'll be back at the end of the week for those. . . papers we discussed."

"Papers?" Archie blinked as if it had completely slipped his mind, then remembered, and nodded. "Oh, yes, yes of course."

"Sooner," Emma prodded. "If possible."

"Yes, I'll do my best. Good evening, Emma."

Sensing that she was being dismissed, Emma nodded back, and showed herself through the muddy tunnel to the staircase. She climbed up, out of the bookcase, and stepped out into the early evening, cabs and horses and pedestrians jockeying by on Harley Street as the practices closed their doors for the night. Even though she had one lead in motion, that was never enough, and the last thing she wanted to do was go home and sit by herself in her cold, grimy flat with the cracked plaster walls and leaking ceiling. Besides, this was when her usual haunts were just beginning to come to life. She checked the sky; the sun was below the horizon, dusk unfolding over the spires and steeples of London, and that meant the Night Market would be opening for business. Once more ensuring that all armaments were in place, Emma set off.

She was waiting for a cumbersome coach-and-six to clear the street (being pelted with a ripe hail of verbal abuse from the other drivers) when she felt a tug on her sleeve, and glanced down to see a cherub-faced, soot-smeared paper boy hopefully brandishing his wares at her. "Evenin' news, ma'am? The lady like the evenin' news? The scandal at the Exhibition, readallaboutit!"

Emma opened her mouth to refuse – then caught sight of the headlining story. **SCANDAL AT THE EXHIBITION: **_**Thievery**_** & **_**Terror**_** As Lone Madman Strikes!** Underneath, there was a grainy daguerreotype made by the new moving-pictures machine, capturing a three-quarters profile of a man sprinting through the halls of the Crystal Palace, face almost in view – but not quite. Over and over, the black-and-white little figure made a mad dash for freedom, outraged citizens trailing on his heels but never quite managing to catch him, as he leapt a barrier and vanished from the frame. As Emma watched, it started again from the beginning, and she peered at it intently, hoping he might turn his head just a bit more this time, just a bit –

"Ma'am wants the paper?" the boy asked, twisting it deftly out of her line of sight. "Thruppence, ma'am, thruppence will do."

Emma dug in her purse and tossed him a sixpence, then scooped up the paper and began to walk and read at the same time, not the most advisable of occupations especially in streets crowded as London's, but too driven by curiosity to do anything else. The article was short and sensational. Thieves had struck at the heart of the prized Great Exhibition, and succeeded in purloining an item – a compass, it seemed – from one of the booths there. Considerable reward was promised for any patriotic citizen who turned in the scoundrel who dared to tarnish Britain's name and glory at such a moment, and who had been armed with two minor crudities of magic: a potent-darkness sphere, and some sort of elemental detonator. The article went on to remind its concerned Public that it was the opinion of the present Editor, and always had been, that such things were best left to those who knew what they were doing with it, and urged its readers to look most dimly on those who meddled in arcane matters beyond their understanding.

"Really," Emma murmured, noting that the Royal Society had never been mentioned in the entire piece – then again, they certainly would not want anyone knowing that a common thief armed with the simplest of small-time magic had been able to outwit, rob, and escape them. Gold had said that the thief was an associate of Hook's, though, and she felt her heart speed up as she studied the running figure. He'd have to have purchased the accessories for his heist at the Night Market – where else? And someone there might have seen him. Remembered him.

After a brief pause, Emma tore out the moving picture and folded it into her sleeve, leaving the rest of the newspaper on a bench; she imagined it wouldn't go to waste. Then, looking sharp for any policemen – or wolves – she stepped up to the nearest door, dug in her purse, and pulled out a plain black key. With some effort, she made it fit into the keyhole, turned it, and felt the familiar faint pulse travel up it and into her fingers. She pushed the door open, stepped through, and shut it behind her. Waited a moment or two, blinking as her eyes adjusted, then began to see lights, hear voices, and feel the ravishing mystery of the bazaar.

Nobody knew where, exactly, the Night Market was. It could only be found by those who had already been there before, and received a key from the Keeper. Once granted, any door it unlocked between the hours of dusk and dawn would open into the market, the caveat being that once you had left for the night, you could not return until the next one. This was a security precaution, avoiding spies and Government moles, as by the time they were able to come back, the market would have moved somewhere else. It was the bane of the Royal Society's existence, a loathing more than heartily returned, and Emma knew she would have to be very careful. If anyone in here found out that she was working a job for the Enemy, her key would be permanently confiscated, and she'd be lucky to get out with everything else intact as well.

The reasons for the two factions' hatred of each other were simple. The Royal Society were gentlemen magicians, wealthy and aristocratic, classically trained, educated as boys at Eton and Harrow, taken degrees in thaumaturgy or magical law or alchemy or aether science at Oxford and Cambridge, powerful lords and dukes who ran the British Empire from genteel parlors and government offices and tolerated no rivals. The Night Market was full of the untrained, the upstart, the unwashed: the commoner magicians. The hedge witches and wandering wizards, some with barely enough power to vanish a thimble, others able to speak to the dead, to conjure visions of past and future, to command dangerous occult forces. Tarot readers and pyromancers, druids with blue-painted faces, at least one poor fool in tin-pot armor claiming to be King Arthur reborn, weird sisters who spoke in threes and offered you the chance to take up the shears and cut your fate, cutpurses and charlatans – every sort there was, and more. Booths were crowded cock-a-hoop alongside each other, one selling ancient goldwork amulets from Samarkand and the next a chamber pot that leapt up and attempted to bite your unmentionables off (excellent gift for people you hated, the seller promised with a conspiratorial wink). All the food smelled delicious, although it was not necessarily advisable to eat it: it could turn you Brobdingnag-large or Lilliput-small or cause you to shriek like a teakettle for three days. You could buy love or beauty spells for your first kiss or the color of your hair. Ditchwater Sal had been rumored to be holding Una, lost princess of Stormhold, here as a slave for many years, until she was freed. Emma took that one, among all the Night Market's other fables, with considerable salt. Lost princess, heiress of a mythical kingdom, suddenly returned to a loving family that had missed her all along, that had never wanted to give her up – not so much.

If the Royal Society could only have found the place, they'd have shut it down and expelled the rabble, appropriated anything with actual power and destroyed the rest, but the Night Market had thus far evaded their clutches. Emma had worked diligently to earn her key, after being first brought here by Graham – he had been her mentor, taught her the craft, taking her under his wing after she was released from prison, eighteen and convinced her life was over. Remembering Neal, she wanted nothing to do with him, but he was persistent. He was a seasoned bounty hunter, and she was his right-hand woman – for a little while, at least. Within a few months he was dead in her arms, she was alone again, and her walls were higher than ever.

She took a deep breath, clearing away the memories, as the sights and smells clustered familiarly around her. If she went from booth to booth, she'd be here all night and barely make a dent, and then she could get back tomorrow and find an entirely different crowd. But there was one way to expedite the process, assuming that he was both here and willing to cooperate – never a given in either case. Pushing aside a salesman dwarf trying to woo her with a selection of magical gemstones and charms, Emma slid the key back into her purse and plunged into the chaos.

Even in a place like this, Jefferson's stall was easy to spot. It was islanded all around with hats: every shape, every size, every color, from hardworking black bowlers to extravagant feathered confections with singing birds and jewels and a single drop of starlight. Some of them would make you discover a heretofore completely unsuspected talent for singing Italian opera, or permanently stick in place and refuse to let you wash your hair, or make you invisible on a dark night, or remember that bit of important information you had forgotten last Thursday. The master of this domain sat in the middle of them, frantically sewing more and mumbling to himself. But he kept an eye on almost everything that went on in the Market, and on the rare occasion you could get him to speak sense, he might (if paid in kind) tell you what or who he had seen.

Emma found it after only a few minutes, and paused outside, listening to the manic clack of shears from the shadows of the tent. "Jefferson," she ordered. "Come out. We need to talk."

A long pause, as she waited to find out whether the Hatter was sane today. Then the flap brushed aside, and Jefferson, hair tousled, brocade vest unbuttoned, and eyes belatedly uncrossing, emerged and blinked at her as if he had never seen her before. He processed. Then he grinned, which was not altogether a welcoming sight. "Ah, Emma. It's you. Tea?"

"No thank you." As a rule, one should never drink anything Jefferson offered. He wasn't _dangerous, _per se,but he was far from safe, either, and they'd met due to him kidnapping her, drugging her, and ordering her to make him a particular magical hat. Kept talking about some other world he had to find his way back to. As a matter of fact, if Archie's asylum should be deservedly sicced on anyone, it was Jefferson, but he _was_ useful. Besides, Emma knew that if she brought an outsider into the Market to take away one of their own, it was treason.

"Shame. I was just. . . just having some." Jefferson lurched back around the corner, gesturing her to follow him. After a brief hesitation, Emma did so, stepping into the low, crowded space and moving a stack of hats off a stool to sit. Jefferson slouched with casual, arrogant grace on the far side of his worktable, sipping from a white porcelain cup with pinkie poshly extended. When she was just starting to wonder when he was planning to come up for air, he put it down, slopping Earl Grey over the side, and leaned forward. "So. What can I do?"

Emma extracted the newspaper clipping and unfolded it. "Who's this?"

Jefferson frowned, studying the small moving figure, fleeing the Exhibition over and over. "Where'd you get this?"

"From the _Times_." Emma shrugged. "He's in danger. I need to find him before someone else does." That wasn't a lie – if the Royal Society caught up to the thief, flaying him alive would be downright merciful. "Have you seen him in the Market?"

Jefferson picked up the clipping and studied it, brows furrowing, muttering what sounded like some nursery rhyme under his breath. "Maybe," he said at length. "Maybe not."

"Jefferson. This is important."

"Important," he repeated, with a low, dry husk of a laugh. "Don't you think I don't know that? Over and over. Day in, day out. Stitch stitch stitch. Next one will work, next one, next one, until it's not that one. But it's the next one after that, it has to be, _until it's not."_

She was losing him. "Jefferson! I will sew you another damned hat if you want. Just tell me if you've seen him, if you know him."

The Hatter sat back. "No."

"_No? _Then I – "

He held up a hand. "But it could be, could be, I know who does."

"Who?"

"Comes at a price."

Exasperated, Emma opened her purse again, fished out a heavy golden guinea, and rolled it between her fingers, in hopes of focusing his mind. "There. Now. . .?"

"It's easy." Jefferson folded up the clipping and handed it back to her. "Just ask the Merry Men."


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

This high in the clouds, it was almost peaceful.

Not that it looked peaceful, not very. The thunderstorm had been raging since before he turned the hourglass, and was not likely to break before he turned it again. Streaks of icy rain slapped the deck, the darkness spectrally lit by a flash of lightning, the flames in the lanterns dancing a reel and the ropes keening like banshees. The _Roger _rocked and groaned, as if disagreeing with her captain about the advisability of staying airborne during the tempest, wanting to land and go safely to earth, but he had outrun worse storms than this, and often without the sensitive silver aerials that were supposed to absorb a lightning strike (which would otherwise ignite the zeppelin and kill them all). This was nothing. Just him and his girl and the fury of the elements.

With the care of a craftsman, Killian Jones took the wheel two notches port, coasting them past a towering ten-story thunderhead that utterly dwarfed the flying vessel, frigid tendrils of mist caressing his face beneath the goggles and muffler, his long leather jacket flapping madly. He always preferred to man the helm himself during these times; it gave him a delightful thrill of power and possibility, dicing with death on the blade of a knife, hearing the aerials crackle and hum, as they swept through the storm-washed skies high above the Channel. Wet, luminous light spilled over the deck as the moon emerged from behind the pillars of cloud, fat as a doubloon that he could pluck from its setting of stars. Storms always did this to him, drenched him clean, made him new. Made him feel halfway whole again, when he breathed.

He consulted the chart lashed to the running board, a glowing dot marking their approximate position – still open water below and another four hours to Paris, even with the _Roger's_ best speed. They should be there by dawn, though, and while the Prince-President, Louis-Napoléon Bonaparte, had long desired a formal alliance with Britain and would not miss the opportunity to secure it by handing over their most wanted criminal, Killian had always found the French customs officers and port wardens to be a more persuadable lot. Most of them were perfectly happy to shelter England's notorious and flamboyant enemy, though not so happy that they did it without regular fat bribes. Yet if the heat was ever too high in London, Paris was a reliable refuge, and he and the _Roger _had flown this route many times. With the compass heavy in his pocket, they might never need to fly it again. They would, though. He wasn't one for settling. He'd thought he could have a home, once, but that was a very long time ago.

Killian's mouth tightened into a grim line. Keeping the helm braced in his hook, he used his hand to wipe the rain off his goggles, tempted to set the ship on her course and go below for a few hours of sleep. Once the storm cleared, she could mostly sail herself, and he had had precious little of it the last several days, being sure that that all was prepared. All he knew about his client was that he was supposedly a _şehzade, _a son of some Ottoman sultan who lived in splendid exile in the Place Vendôme, and had promised a correspondingly stupendous sum for the compass, this small little thing. And thus far, it had been easy. Too easy, almost. But if the bugger wanted to pay and pay well, he'd have had the compass even if they had to climb a hundred beanstalks and fight a hundred giants for it.

The thunderheads were starting to break up. Far below, he could see the dark coast of France ribboning into view, the rolling patchwork fields of Normandy. He triangulated their position again: a few miles northeast of Dieppe. His bed was calling to him, and there'd be damn little time in it anyway. So, locking the wheel into position and activating the enchanted lodestone in the helm housing, he turned away and crossed the rain-slick deck to his cabin.

It was fairly capacious, airships being built to a larger and more luxurious standard than the others, with a bank of broad windows that looked out into the starry heavens, a claw-footed table and chairs, shelves built into the far wall and loaded with all sorts of books; he must be the only pirate in the world who accepted rare or valuable codices and manuscripts as payment as well as gold and jewels. On the other side was the bed, which still had the colorful quilts and embroidered cushions that Milah had chosen; before that it had been Liam's, spare and spartan, a grey blanket and flat white pillow. Sometimes he could sense them both there (usually when in a rum haze) if he lay very still, eyes closed. More often, it was just emptiness.

Killian shucked his damp jacket and vest and unclicked his hook from its brace, wincing as he began to undo the buckles that strapped the complicated leather apparatus to his shoulder. It had worn deep bloodless creases into his flesh, which stung painfully as circulation started to return. He had just started to lift it off over his head, still an awkward business with one hand, when a sudden rap at the cabin door caught him by surprise.

Scowling, he let the contraption drop back into place, and still in shirt, trousers, and boots, strode crossly to answer it. "Mr. Smee, this is highly irregular! Back to quarters, or – "

"Apologies, Captain." His first mate did indeed look apologetic, but also clearly had not ventured to interrupt him in the dead of night for a lark. "But Scarlet was talking, down below decks, and it seems as if, in the course of obtaining our. . . portable assets, he may have gotten himself clawed up by one of the Police wolves. Or bit. He wasn't sure which."

_Bloody hell. _"And the bastard didn't bother to tell _me _this?"

"Said as you seemed a trifle more concerned about the compass, Cap'n."

_Bloody hell, _Killian thought again, it being an applicable epithet in every situation when it came to Will Scarlet. There was no arguing with Scarlet's skills as a thief, which he made liberal and profitable use of, and he could damn well recognize a man with the same emptiness behind his eyes where love and family used to be. Could also sympathize with a man on the run from the British authorities, and had to confess to enjoying their banter and bickering, while being careful not to let him get away with too much. Will had been sailing with the _Roger _for almost a year now, and the men all liked him, but Killian often wondered if it was past time to boot him off. No matter how diligently he trod on it, there was a small but genuine part of him that did care for the bugger, and that meant Will was destined either to die horribly or turn traitor and betray him for thirty pieces of silver (though it would likely be more, knowing the bounty on his head). Will was a bloody nuisance, tell it true, but Killian had sometimes entertained the idea that they could be each other's family in the way he had lacked for so long, had offered to another young man once before and had thrown back in his face. Will couldn't replace Bae and he couldn't replace Liam, but he could be something. A brother. A friend.

And that, being the case, had to be destroyed before the world could get around to it first. Which it now seemed, by virtue of the Police wolves, it might be. If Will had been bitten, then, if left untreated, he would become a full-fledged werewolf at the next full moon – three days from now. Lycanthropy treatments were finicky and expensive, but they _were _available – in London, that was. While Paris had _l'Academie des arts magiques_, the equivalent institution to the Royal Society, French magicians were kept on a much more stringent leash. They were only allowed to research and study the history of magic, not perform it openly, and certainly not to function as a shadow government like their English counterparts. As well, to further placate the Catholic establishment, Louis-Napoléon had promised that the Pope's encyclicals and bulls would be respected, and as Pius had made his opinions on magic flatly known, any unlicensed practitioner was taking his own life in his hands. The shadow of the guillotine on the Place de la Concorde was not an idle threat.

"Thank you, Mr. Smee," Killian said tersely, seeing his first mate still bobbing at the door. He slammed it, then leaned against it, swearing under his breath. Of course. Of _course._

The choice was quite simple. Either he could turn the ship around, fly back to London, and cure Will of his furry little problem – at the cost of missing the meeting and mortally offending the powerful man who had arranged it in the first place. Or press on, make the rendezvous in Paris to sell the compass, and risk condemning Will to the same nasty, brutish, and short life as the rest of the poor bastards now swept up in the Royal Society's ever-broadening net. He couldn't keep a wolf aboard the ship, especially a new one with no clue what he had become or how to control it, and dumping Will anywhere in Britain would get him killed outright by some pack or other for encroaching on their territory. The climate in the rest of Europe was even less hospitable.

In other words, Killian would be left with no choice but to put him in Robert Gold's power. To let that bastard whoreson take one more thing from him. And that, so long as he had breath in his body, could live one more day and one more night thinking about getting revenge on the crocodile, skinning him, ripping him from limb from limb, was never going to bloody happen.

He calculated swiftly in his head. It need not be a complete calamity. If he turned around and returned to London right now, got Will pawned off on some hopefully discreet doctor who had never seen a newspaper (or at least could be paid to pretend he hadn't) then ditched his extra cargo and flew back like all the demons of hell were on his tail, he could make it to Paris only slightly late. If he apologized profusely and threw in some extra treasure (not that an Ottoman prince, if that was indeed who his client was, was likely to have need of it) then it could likely still be salvaged. If not, well. . . if worse came to absolute worst, he'd sell the compass back to the Royal Society at three times its value, but he preferred to avoid that option.

Decision made, Killian threw back on his hook, vest, jacket, scarf, and goggles, exhausted muscles complaining as he emerged at a trot from the cabin and headed topside to the wheel again. Took hold and swung her sharply around, banking through the clouds, ropes straining and the great silk phantom of the zeppelin swaying and jolting, a feeling of momentary weightlessness beneath his feet until they caught the new direction. Wearily recalibrated the charts for London, fired up every spare thruster they had, and stared down the barrel of the horizon as they sailed back into the rain clouds. Back into the storm.

It was a bloody good thing his hatches were battened like all hell.

They wouldn't make it there before dawn. That ruled out the Night Market, as they did not have time to loiter around all day waiting for it to open again. Then there was the problem of landing the airship in the middle of London, agreement with the Dock masters or not, whilst a full-scale manhunt was on for whoever had robbed the Exhibition – a theft they had doubtless traced to him. But landing on the outskirts and rowing in would take more time, though Killian figured he could always just put Will over the side in the _Roger's _longboat and order him to fend for himself. Should do that anyway, bloody hell. Throw him into the ocean.

Yet either way, there remained the problem of getting him off the ship. According to the pirates' code, no man on the crew was ever forced to serve, in sharp contrast to the brutal press gangs of the Crown that many of them had escaped – Killian had read enough accounts, of Henry Avery and Edward Teach and Black Bartholomew Roberts, to know that leaving the Navy for a pirate's life was a fairly common career move. Most of the sailors were there because they'd been pressed, beaten and kidnapped into service. But Liam Jones, in defiance of the standing orders that required Royal Navy captains to be as brutal as possible, had treated his men with firm but fair respect, a piece of common human decency that could have lost him his command if a superior had come on board and considered his crew insufficiently terrorized. When he'd stolen the ship after his brother's death and gone rogue, Killian had been determined to honor both that and the pirate tradition of keeping no slaves and giving every man, more or less, a say in shipboard business. Though he _was _the captain and a damned good one too, if he tried to throw Will off the ship with no apparent provocation, it was going to cost him dear. Pirates became pirates usually because they damn well hated corrupt kings, tyrannical captains, and the life of a slave. They didn't take to going back.

Still. It wasn't just the sale of the compass that he was risking, not merely a matter of money. After all, money was scarcely an issue for a pirate. But this connoisseur of obscure navigational objects had said that he needed someone who hated Robert Gold as much as he did, and whose successful service in this matter might lead to him finding out certain valuable information. Killian must be out of his mind to risk missing it.

So, then. He knew what he had to do: leave Will behind, and find a way to make it look like an accident. Didn't have to kill him, just get rid of him. Once he wasn't a werewolf, Will could disappear back into the underworld, make a fine life there. They'd protect him from the Royal Society, they'd hail him as a hero. And if not, it wasn't Killian's bloody problem.

Not his bloody problem.

* * *

Will Scarlet had expected to wake up with Paris unfurling beneath him, the Gothic bell-towers of the churches and the grey ribbon of the Seine, all the romance and elegance and mystery of the land of French girls, fancy pastries, and blokes who ate frogs, and hence was significantly befuddled as to why the bloody hell he appeared to be looking at the arse-end of Wapping (Wapping-on-the-Ooze, it was generally known as) instead. They were flying right over Execution Dock, in fact, where pirates were hanged, then their corpses staked out for three turns of the tide, and Will couldn't help but seein' that as, you asked him, something of a bad omen. Not to mention that he couldn't for the life of him figure out what he was doing back in London anyway, and momentarily considered the possibility that he had been captured while asleep and dragged onto a Navy ship to face the day of judgment. Aye, he could just hear himself informing a hostile Admiralty court that he had bloody slept through his own arrest, and would they maybe consider having mercy on him for it?

After he blinked hard, however, he recognized that he was still in his bunk on the _Roger, _jerked out of a turbulent, unsatisfying dream to the sharp pain in his shoulder. It seemed to be getting worse. He had doctored himself up with the surgeon's stuff best he could, but his memory had gone a bit hazy after that. Had availed himself of his rum ration as a practical solution, and then the lads had wanted the blow-by-blow, so he gave them the rip-roaring account of his adventures, making it all very grandiose and exciting. Must have wandered off to goo-goo land somewhere in the middle of that, thus to arrive at his current state of confusion. No, but what even the _buggeration _was happening? It beggared belief that the Captain had decided to call the whole thing off and go home. Perhaps they'd been boarded by agents of the Crown and forced to fly back under duress? Forgot to take the kettle off before they left the first time?

In any event, no matter what it was, Will would feel better facing it with his trousers on. He rolled out of his bunk, hauled his clothing back into place, picked up the rum bottle and tipped it hopefully over his mouth, but nothing was left. Considering the muffled pounding in his head, maybe that was for the best, but at least the upside of having your shoulder used as a raw steak for a wolf was that it tended to distract you from minor ailments. He was going to be useless if he had to swing anything at anybody, so he hoped that wasn't on the docket. That and –

The _Roger _was still descending, rain scattering against the portholes like beads of flung mercury. Will grabbed the storm lines strung up along the walls and braced himself as they rumbled in for a landing, kicking up a long skim of white-frothed river. They bounced and swayed back and forth, he shook his head and regretted it, and had just started to attempt to get his bearings when there was a foreboding knock on the door, followed by the ingress of Mr. Smee and several of the larger-sized crewmen. "Scarlet. You'll be coming with us."

"What's this?" Will demanded, taking a step backwards and fetching smartly against the grate. "The bloody hell did I do? I'm not so pissed that I can't – "

"Orders." Smee looked suspiciously pleased with himself. "We're to take you on the boat and make sure you don't turn into a wolf. Then leave you behind and run." He frowned. "Wait. Forget I said that."

Will stared at him, jaw sagging. Then suddenly, the pieces clicked. "You! You ratted me out, didn't you?" His recollections of last night were murky at best, but surely he'd mentioned the wolves, wanting to sound like a bloody hero, and Smee had scuttled off and filched on him to the Captain. Which meant he himself, Will Scarlet, was the reason they'd upped and sailed back to London, which meant. . .

Damn. He hadn't even thought of that possible aspect of the situation. Trying to disguise how taken off guard he had been, he narrowed his eyes at the first mate instead. "Well then, you bloody well better hope I don't turn, because the first thing I'd do is bite you in the arse, you blithering sneak. If you or anyone think they're gettin' me off the ship, they'd better – "

"Scarlet." The voice came from behind the lot of them, and they all did stupid little twirls to see the Captain leaning in the doorway. "I heard you encountered a slight mishap while so generously procuring the compass for us, so it seemed the least I could do in return to make sure you didn't spend your days running from the bloody Royal Society and your nights howling at the moon. So come on, we're going to find you a doctor."

"Ah," Will said, somewhat mollified. He aimed another glare at the hoodlum gang, then proceeded past them with great dignity and followed the Captain on deck to the launch boat, swinging on its divots above the choppy Thames. "I hope I'm not expected to manage that thing by myself," he remarked, eyeing it skeptically. "Can barely row with 'alf me arm danglin' by a thread, can I? Wouldn't be humane to send me by myself into London as a charity case, me being a wanted fugitive and such."

"Smee will go with you."

"Like hell Smee will go with me."

The Captain glared at him. "He will if I bloody well – what's that?"

Will squinted, seeing nothing – and then an instant later, the scorching bloom of fire in the fog, and heard a distant report of guns. Something shrieked past perilously close to their starboard quarter, and the water bubbled and hissed where it struck, sending up a billowing column of steam. It fought with Will's fuddled brain an instant longer, then came clear. They had landed in the middle of an ambush. An ambush in the middle of the Thames, merchant ships to every side, were they bloody insane? Clearly, the depths of pissed right off the Royal Society currently was had never before been known to man. But how on _earth_ had they –

"_GO!" _Hook shoved him hard in the back, toppling Will arse over teakettle into the boat. The crew was boiling topside, sprinting to load the guns and return fire – only to be stopped by a bellow ordering them that they had better not even think about it. An answering shot would be as good as a dead reckoning to announce their position, as well as making it plain that they had something to hide. Instead the Captain hauled on the wheel, jerking the thrusters back to life, as they skimmed along the river and took off again, another shot scoring the keel. A plume of green sparks crackled through the rigging like St. Elmo's fire, and Will thought of the vulnerable zeppelin above them. One shell through that thing, and they were all history.

The very next second, he thought they were in fact, done for. There was a whistling shriek somewhere in the clouds, whether magical or mechanical he had no idea, and an explosion lit up the aft deck. Shards of wood sprayed everywhere, silhouetting spread-eagled bodies against the glare, and the _Roger _juddered and lurched horrifyingly, slewing almost dead in the air. Will had been protected from the main force of the blast by the boat falling on him (wasn't too fussed about it, considering) but clawed out from underneath it and crawled across the tilting deck, heart in his throat. "Bloody hell. . . bloody hell. . . bloody hell. . . OY! JONES!"

He thought he saw an indistinct dark shape struggling to sit up, and made it to the ruins of the helm just in time to see the Captain, blood running down his face from a gash in his forehead, swearing and spitting. Upon laying eyes on Will, his expression altered to an even more wrathful aspect. "What in damnation are _you_ still doing here? I told you to get on the bloody boat!"

"And sail down the Royal Navy's gullet in a bathtub all by my sodding self so they could shoot me like a fat Christmas goose and let you escape? I don't bloody think so!"

The Captain spluttered some idiotic protest, which Will ignored. "Give me that." Yanking the spyglass from Hook's belt, he twisted it open and peered into the fog, searching for the shapes behind the next muzzle-flash. It was Nelson's chequey to be sure – Royal Navy airships, two of them at least, closing fast, and the _Roger _disabled, able to do nothing but wait to be taken prisoner. They wouldn't be kept in suspense for long; it would be surprising if they even got a trial. Curtains for them all and fare thee well, down the pit of –

Wait. He'd just thought of something. The lodestone and chart were blown, the wheel useless, but the old girl still had a few surprises up her sleeve. Will reached into the splintered ruins of the housing, fumbled around, and triggered the cloaking device.

It was an old and balky one, purchased at exorbitant cost from a French frigate being dismantled for scrap, but said frigate had been one of the few on her side to survive Trafalgar, and there must have been a reason for that. There was a quick, powerful pulse as the invisibility magic flared through the torn lines and tilting deck, enshrouding the _Roger _completely just as the two Navy gunboats burst through the clouds. They swept by on either side of the pirate ship nearly close enough to shine the brass off its outriggers – although invisible, they were no less solid – and hurtled into the fog bank ahead without a second glance or slowing.

Will blew out a slow, ragged breath, sitting back on his heels. "Well. That was worth every penny what you paid that villain for it, eh?"

For a long moment, Killian Jones appeared mildly stunned. Then he pushed himself upright and fixed Will with a baleful stare. "Get your hands off my ship."

"What the – ? I just _saved _the damned thing and everyone on it! A little bloody gratitude might not stick in your craw!"

"Saved it only because you were stupid enough to get yourself attacked by a werewolf and ruin the meeting I've been trying years to make!" The captain got unsteadily to his feet, balancing himself with a grimace. "I thought I'd do you a favor – which you don't deserve, by the by – get back and drop you off to be seen to. Now thanks to you, the ship isn't going anywhere!"

"_What?"_ The unfairness of this made Will choke. "I wasn't the one who turned it around, eh? Maybe if you'd admit there are other things in life worth more than your bloody revenge, you'd have thought this through differently! But you can't even see 'em when they're right – "

And then, despite his head of righteous steam, he faltered. The look on the Captain's face, the utter hellfire in his eyes, took even Will Scarlet, who was used to speaking his mind more than was customary, back a step or three. "No," Hook said, flat and cold as stone. "There's nothing worth more to me than my revenge. And you just damned well got in the way."

* * *

Despite this, there was still the fact that the cloaking device would not last forever, and that they couldn't fly anywhere until a new lodestone was installed and the helm repaired. Which meant that Killian had to take his chances on sneaking into London to buy one, while fulfilling the original purpose of their ill-fated return: stop Will from turning into a werewolf. But as it was still only midmorning, the Night Market would not be an option for hours. Nor was he inclined to wait.

"Does anyone have a useful idea for alternatives?" he snapped. "Every bloody physician in the city who deals with magical maladies must be in the Royal Society's pocket, go to any of them and they'll turn us in. Elsewise – "

"There's one," one of the younger crewmen piped up. "A doctor, that is. When I was a lad, me mum started going a bit barmy, talkin' to things as wasn't there and turnin' the rest to God knows what. We weren't able to pay for the doctor, but he saw her anyway. He said it was because she was born magic and wasn't allowed to do nuffin' wiv it, so it had been re – repressed all her life and was burstin' out all over. He did the best he could for her and didn't never tell the Royal Society, not a word. Even though it's illegal not to report folk as has it."

"Really." Killian cocked a disbelieving eyebrow. "What happened to her?"

"She. . . she died, cap'n. Three month later, of the bloody flux. That's why I ran away to sea. But it wasn't nuffin' to do with magic, she got that 'andled and was right as rain. Cross me 'eart."

"Really," Killian murmured again. "And what was this paragon of medical virtue's _name?"_

"Er. . ." The young man thought hard, then brightened. "Opper! That was it, sure. Archibald 'Opper, in 'Arley Street."

"Think he means Archibald Hopper in Harley Street, Cap'n," Smee put in helpfully.

"Thank you for that clarification, Mr. Smee, I should have never deduced it on my own. Very well. If you're right about this, there will be a tidy sum. If, on the other hand, you get us handed over to the Royal Society and hanged, rest assured the same will become of you."

With this arrangement settled, the disabled ship was carefully brought as low as they could get it without landing, and the longboat was launched. And that was how Killian Jones and Will Scarlet found themselves rowing up a filthy stone tunnel, one of the many secret waterways under London, ignoring each other as hard as possible. Both of them had donned dark hoods and cloaks, and beneath those a small arsenal of pistols strapped to bandoliers, but neither was in the least happy, and was making sure the other knew it. Killian, for his part, had just about decided that even if Dr. Hopper's discretion extended to not handing a poor, harmless old woman over to the authorities, it would not do likewise in re: the most wanted pirate in Britain and his accomplice who had embarrassed the nation by stealing from the Great Exhibition. He abruptly shipped the oars and stopped dead, green-black water lapping at the sides.

Will eyed him darkly. "What? Expectin' the damn thing to row itself?"

"No. I was thinking we should bloody well wait for the Night Market. You've already ruined the Paris meeting, so there's no sense in marching in and getting ourselves arrested to boot."

Will was clearly thinking about firing back, but chewed his tongue instead. Finally he said, "Gold strikes me as the sort of bloke who's made enemies everywhere. Surely there's other ways you can get after him, if that's what you really want, even if this one goes belly-up."

Killian had been fully girded for another insult, and was unsure how to respond to what looked like, if you stood several paces away and squinted hard, almost like encouragement. He snorted instead and threw out the hawser, tying the boat to the makeshift underground pier and clambering out. "Either way, I'm not sitting here for the rest of the damned day. Suit yourself."

After a moment, he heard the thief step out after him, and set his jaw. So, then. He'd have to do it the hard way.

Killian and Will spent the daylight hours deep under London, hungry and in pain and out of sorts, until at last Will climbed near enough the surface to get a look and judge that it was almost dusk. "And about time too," he added, dropping back down. "Let's get the blazes out of here."

Killian grunted a terse agreement as Will pulled the black key from his jacket, walked to a grimy, rusted door in the tunnel wall, and jammed it in, twisting. Both of them waited in terse expectation. Will gave it another jolt with his good shoulder, wiggling the key hopefully, but the door continued to remain silent and shut. It did not open into the Night Market. It did nothing.

"Bloody hell," Will said incredulously. "The damn place's locked me out!"

"Get out of the way," Killian ordered, shoving him away from the door and removing his own key from his vest. He, however, had no more success, and as he stared at it, a horrible realization began to dawn. It was certainly not unheard of for the Market to decide to banish troublemakers from its premises, and as Will must have every constable in London after him, as well as the Royal Navy clearly having been tipped off somehow and lying in wait to destroy the _Roger _on its return, that would be more than enough for it to conclude that they were an intolerable risk. And if so, their lifeline was cut. They couldn't survive in the underworld without the Night Market. They couldn't even survive tonight.

Killian shook the key and swore at it, as if this would suddenly render it more amenable to his bidding. "This door's the problem," he declared. "Probably rusted shut. Let's find another."

When it was full dark overhead, they scaled the ladder and tumbled out in a narrow, reeking sty of a back alley, somewhere in one of London's most decrepit districts – which, considering their status as fugitives, was exactly what they wanted. They found another door and tried it instead, but this time the key didn't even fit, and started to glow an ominous red, burning hot enough to sear, as Killian hissed and dropped it. The message could not have been clearer. They were patently not welcome, and if they continued to try to force their way in, the Market would have to take drastic measures to keep them out.

"Well, that answers that," Killian muttered, pressing his blistered hand into the cool mud. In default of the Night Market, the only way to get a new lodestone for the _Roger _would be to steal one from another ship, and the only way to prevent Will from becoming the most unwelcome guest on a sheep farm was –

Oh, bloody hell.

* * *

Archibald Hopper was just emerging from underground, thinking longingly of the supper club just a short stroll away on Queen Anne Street, which served a delicious hot fish stew to stick to the ribs and hit the spot on this miserable wet night, when it suddenly occurred to him that there was a draft circulating through his front hall, carrying a tide of floating papers. Frowning, he shut the bookcase firmly and rolled down the silver grate – he trusted Ruby, of course, but everyone needed a little help sometimes – then hurried out to find that his front door had been somehow left ajar. His secretary must have forgotten to lock up, though such carelessness wasn't like her. He kept no money or valuables in the office, though sometimes young addicts would try to break in and steal his supplies of opium, laudanum, and other such substances. Those he kept in the safe, but it was still dark and quiet, and desperate junkies weren't known for stealth. Odd.

Nonetheless, Archie straightened his bowtie, preparing to go and reason with them. As long as they hadn't taken anything else, he saw no reason to involve the Metropolitan. These were just poor mad people, who didn't deserve what would be coming to them otherwise. The police had enough on their plate, what with the scandal at the Exhibition. He just had to –

Archie took one step, and walked directly into the barrel of a gun.

"Good evening, Dr. Hopper." It was a low, commanding voice, with an accent that had once been a gentleman's but slid and roughened into the darker cadences of the street. "Terribly sorry to engage your services like this, but we are all slaves to fortune. Now you're going to make an important decision, which I shall give you thirty seconds to ponder on. When I remove this pistol from its present location between your eyeballs, you can assist us, or you can not."

Archie was too stunned to be frightened, but quickly pulled himself together; it wasn't the first time he'd been threatened by a patient or a burglar. "You can have the drugs," he said, as firmly as he could. "If you want them. The opium, the – "

"Oh, we haven't come for that."

Archie was confused. "You haven't?"

"No. We have heard you know something about treating magical maladies, and hence, you're going to give us a cure for someone bitten by a werewolf. Quickly."

"What the – for _R – ?" _He bit back his patient's name; she had been born a wolf, there was no way to undo that. "I mean, for. . . _you?"_

"No," a second voice said, also male, sounding resigned. "For me. Evenin', guv'nor. Sorry about the gun. He's a bit of a melodramatic chap."

Archie's eyes were adjusting to the darkness, and by blinking them still harder, he could make out the shapes of the two intruders. The one holding him up was taller by several inches, though both of them were swathed in black cloaks that made them look like bats or vicars. They also reeked as if they'd spent the last several days in the sewers, and were dripping rainwater on his hallway carpet. Their faces – he _should_ recognize the first one, he had an intense feeling that he should, it was nagging in the back of his brain somewhere, but the second –

"You!" he blurted out. "You're the one that stole the compass from the Great Exhibition! The one they're all looking for!"

The second man sighed. "Well spotted. Jig's up. S'pose we've got no choice now. Go ahead and shoot him, then."

"I. . . wait," Archie stammered, as the first one cocked the hammer of the gun with an ominous thunk. "It happens I _do _know a thing or two about lycanthropy treatments. It's rather painful, mind, and expensive. I – I don't work for free – "

"You've got a gun to your head," the first one pointed out, with his cool, cocksure air of command. "Of course you bloody work for free."

Hard as he tried, Archie could not find a way to disagree with that logic, and allowed himself to be marched into his workroom by the two intruders. His eyes flicked to the bell that he was supposed to pull in case of emergencies, which would alert the Marylebone fire brigade, but he didn't doubt they'd already taken the liberty of cutting it. He lit an oil lamp to see by, casting weird, wavering shadows over the room, and adopted a friendly tone, hoping to put them off their guard. "It's a bit of a process," he said. "Sure I can't offer you fellows supper and a drink?"

The one with the gun pointed it at him in answer. "Bloody get moving, you scrofulous cephalopod, before I blow your brains out."

"_Scrofulous cephalopod?"_ his sidekick echoed with a snort. "What in the bugger does that even _mean?"_

"Ah – an octopus with scurvy. More or less."

"An octopus with scurvy. Of course. Bloody hell, Jones."

Archie jerked. Feeling their eyes flash instantly to him, knowing that he'd overheard _that_ slip of the tongue, he did his best to keep his expression blank and incurious. It happened he _had _been by the Admiralty, yesterday afternoon, on Emma's errand. Done his best to sell the cover story of her being the wife of a Jones who had served on the _Jewel of the Realm _prior to its treasonous defection, but hadn't come away with much for his pains. Contrary to Emma's expectations, the Whitehall bureaucrats very much did care about that ship, and one of them told Archie he'd better find out who, exactly, his patient was – it being known that the _Jewel _was now an infamous pirate vessel, the _Jolly Roger, _and its captain one of the worst criminals in the Empire. If she _was_ married to said Jones, they wanted to talk to her.

After that, Archie had made all sorts of excuses, claiming it was only a misunderstanding and that his patient was a law-abiding woman who had never so much as had a disloyal thought. He'd laid it on thick, he supposed, but he couldn't help but fear that he had accidentally blown Emma's cover, even though he'd never mentioned her name. Whoever she was working for was hopefully powerful enough to give her additional protection, though he had to wonder what they were playing at by sending her on the trail of – of _this _maniac. Was that who he was? It must be.

Affecting nonchalance, Archie unlocked his store cupboard and got to work. His practice focused more on emotions and the talking cure and support rather than the powerful and dangerous stuff of the apothecaries and chemists, but as Ruby wasn't the first of her kind to pass through here, he had by necessity acquired a basic competence at wolfbite potion. The Royal Society would know if a doctor was buying consistent large quantities of it somewhere, and then they would start asking questions, which Archie preferred to avoid. There was no magic involved, just a few specialty ingredients, and the rest was science. He'd learned it from a man called Whale, one of the other doctors on Harley Street, though sometimes he wasn't sure if _doctor _was the best word for him. It was well known that he paid university students to snatch fresh corpses from churchyards, and heaven only knew what he did with them after that. Archie had always thought it was best for his own health not to enquire too closely. Whale might be making more monsters than he was mending.

At last, Archie stepped back from the bubbling crucible, watching the iridescent blue smoke coil into the air. "Well," he said, doing his best to sound pleasant. "A few hours for that, then it'll be done. You look tired. Surely you'd like to – "

Jones moved closer and jammed the pistol beneath Archie's chin, their faces barely an inch apart. With the other hand – no, it wasn't a hand, it was a metal _hook, _and if the doctor was in doubt about his captor's identity, he was no longer – he rested the lethally sharp tip on his forehead. "Go ahead," he said silkily. "Give it a try. I've always wanted to dissect a cricket."

"Sir," Archie said. "I can see that you are a very troubled man, a very lonely man, and you've made many choices and faced many terrible things to become who you are now, which I'm sure I can't understand or imagine. But there's always a chance to change. To – "

"Shut your mouth, insect." The ugly light gleamed darker in the pirate's blue eyes. "Before I bloody squash you."

The second man, Jones' compatriot, cleared his throat. "Oy. Some of us might think it was bad form to be threatenin' the doctor currently saving our arses."

"_Your_ arse. I assure you my own does not enter into it at any point."

"Sure it doesn't. But you've made your point, the stuff's brewin', you don't have to keep gettin' up in his face like that. Chap might get a trifle confused about what you want from 'im."

Jones snorted, but consented to remove both hook and pistol, though his hunter's gaze never wavered. "As a matter of fact," he said, "I've another errand to see to, while we wait. You – " glancing at his sidekick – "do the honors, would you?"

The second man sighed deeply, rolled his eyes at the ceiling, then reached beneath his cloak, produced a pistol of his own, and cocked it. "Sorry, guv'nor," he said resignedly. "Orders."

The hostage thus assured, Jones made his exit on whatever nefarious purpose he was about, and Archie, sensing that his second captor was of a more accommodating temperament, turned an appealing smile on him. "What's your name, son?"

"Will," the young man said, readily enough. "Got meself bit by a wolf like an idiot. 'Preciate your help in ensuring it ain't permanent."

"Not a problem at all. Where – ah – how long do you think your. . . friend will be gone?"

"No idea. How quick you think he can make it to the docks and back?"

"I have no idea," Archie said ridiculously, wondering if the lad was actually attempting to make conversation. "Is he – stealing a ship, then?"

"Stealing a bit of one." Will shrugged. "Mind if we sit? My legs are bloody killing me." With that, not waiting actual permission, he flopped filthy cloak and all onto Archie's brocade-upholstered davenport. "Don't worry, guv'nor, we're not going to actually off you. The captain's more bark than bite. Sometimes. I think."

Archie considered, then sat down next to him. "Aren't you afraid I'll turn you in?"

"Generally assume everyone's going to turn me in, then work backwards from there." Will scratched his chin. "And in fact, we 'eard of you due to someone sayin' you wouldn't fink on us, actually. So there's that."

Despite himself, the doctor was intrigued. "Who said that?"

"Some boy whose mum you sorted, apparently. Poor woman who had to bottle her magic up her whole life and it turned her potty. Said you 'elped her with that and never said a word to. . ." Will paused. "Them."

"I. . . I did." Archie was surprised, and pleased. What with him having sent up red flags at the Admiralty already, he would not be at all surprised if a pair of Police Inspectors were round here to snoop in the morning. It was to his own advantage to keep his mouth shut, as much as that of the intruders. He might not mind seeing Jones suffer a bit, but Will seemed like a nice enough lad (if rather in need of firm guidance) and the Royal Society was no friend of Archie's either.

The two of them whiled the time away, saying nothing. Archie asked to get up and use the commode at one point, which was granted. Still thinking mournfully of his lost supper, he checked on the cure, stirred in a few more ingredients, then returned to sit on the davenport again, almost at his ease despite the fact that the young thief was still holding a gun on him. "You can put that away, can't you, Will?" he offered. "I'm no threat to you."

Will hesitated. "Orders."

"Of course. Didn't mean to incite you to disloyalty to your captain." Archie smiled generously. "Bit of a moody sort, isn't he?"

"That's one way to put it. Him and his bloody revenge."

Ah. Something here. Something that might be a clue for Emma, and whoever had sent her after the pirate. "Revenge?" Archie asked delicately. "On who?"

"Gold." Will shrugged. "Robert Gold. Hates the bastard's guts."

"Is there anyone in London who doesn't?"

Will glanced at him, surprised, then laughed. "Doubt many of them are so open about it, though, considering what 'appens to his enemies. Bit of a personal affair between Gold and our dear captain. Gold's wife, you know, she – " Suddenly catching himself, he stopped.

"Yes?" Archie pressed, fascinated. He'd heard rumors about Milah Gold, the President's late wife – all tidied over and hushed up, but it had been the scandal of the century when she left him for someone else. Embarrassed him, diminished him, made him into a laughingstock. His enemies had jeered that Robert Gold might be the most powerful man in Britain, but he could not even govern his own wife. _Poor woman. She never stood a chance. _Sinister gossip held that Gold, when he finally tracked her down, had killed her himself. This was after the magician's only son, Baelfire, his pride and joy, had run away from home as well. _Enough skeletons in that family's closet to fill a graveyard._

"Never mind." Will shook his head. "He'd skelp me if he heard me sittin' here and babblin' on like this." He checked the grandfather clock. "Should be back soon, assuming he didn't get into any more bloody trouble. Though stealin' a lodestone isn't the easiest thing in the world."

Archie filed that bit of intelligence away as well – the pirate's ship must have been damaged in a previous engagement, and hence was here in London somewhere, incapacitated and unable to get away without replacement parts. At least he would have plenty to tell Emma, whenever she paid a return visit. She could then catch Jones, and all their lives would be saved.

The potion was almost done by now, bubbling and hissing, and Archie got up, took it off the heat, and poured the thick, silvery substance into a cup. "Drink it slowly," he advised, handing it to Will, who sniffed it dubiously. "Gentle sips."

Will shrugged. "Not much of a sippin' man," he commented, and threw it down at a gulp.

At once, his eyes bulged out, his face turned an entire series of remarkable colors, and he wheezed and heaved and hacked, gulping air and pressing a fist into his stomach. "Bloody –_hell," _he managed, grimacing. "What'd you put in there, bloody – "

"I did tell you to sip it," Archie informed him. "It's not my fault you didn't listen, now is it?"

Will didn't answer, being occupied in attempting not to retch his guts out, but belatedly got hold of himself. "Right," he said hoarsely. "Cap'n can get back any time he likes."

Archie heartily agreed. It wasn't long off from dawn, and no matter how careful the pirate doubtless was, the last thing he wanted was for someone to see Captain Hook sneaking into his respectable practice. He had been awake all night, and felt rather pleasantly light-headed as the distant church bells called four, then eventually five. Will was drowsing as well, no matter how hard he was trying otherwise, and the gun had long since made its disappearance. The further the dawn broke, however, the more apparent it became to Archie, even if he didn't want to say it.

"Will," he said, when the bells began to strike six. "Will, I don't think he's coming."

"Bollocks," Will muttered sleepily. "Unless he got caught, and he don't get caught."

"Nonetheless." Archie stood up. "He's gone. He left you here."

Will looked confused more than anything, clearly not thinking that a man who stabbed others in the back for a living would do the same to him – which Archie thought rather naïve, considering. He shook his head, his first instinct clearly to deny it, but something suddenly occurred to him. He swore out loud and jerked to his feet, as the reality of his predicament hit.

"That bloody pirate son of a whore and a pig," the thief said angrily. "You're right. He damned well did."


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Killian had not been at all sure it would work. Navigational lodestones tended to take on personalities of their own, remembering the ships they had served in and the places they had gone, growing attached to their captains and charts, and ripping one out and expecting it to serve the same function in an unfamiliar vessel was not the wisest of wagers. Not that he had any choice. After he pried the lodestone out of the merchant airship (tempting as it was, he didn't want to steal one from the Navy; they undoubtedly had a way to track it) and run like bugger and got back to the _Roger,_ told the crew that Scarlet had fallen behind and hence was subject to what happened to pirates who fell behind, everything still hung on whether they could get the damn thing to work. He knelt, pulled out the broken pieces of the blown-out one, jiggered the new one into place, and held his breath.

It sputtered on and off, then started to go dark. He growled and hit the helm housing with a closed fist, and the lodestone lurched back to life, flaring through the ship. Hauling ponderously out of her near-capsize, the _Roger _quickly began to gain altitude as Killian drove them hard skyward. He hadn't been able to steal a replacement for the chart, so they'd have to fly blind to Paris, but he'd managed the route so many times, in so many conditions, that he did not suppose it to be much of a problem. He refused to believe that the opportunity was gone altogether.

He was completely clear in his mind about what he had done. He could tell that the doctor wasn't going to turn them in (not one of them, at least) and with the cure well on the way, that meant Will also wasn't going to end up as a werewolf. Hence, Killian had done a bloody sight more for him than he had to, and the thief had no further chances to get in the way of his revenge. He couldn't go to the authorities to tell them what he knew about the pirates without also incriminating himself, so Killian had no fear of the bugger attempting to pay him back in kind. Whatever Scarlet did with his life now was of no concern to him.

It was a tense and harrowing ascent, the lodestone nearly going out several more times, and the cloaking device flickering in and out under the strain of the damaged timbers. But they made it, and Killian allowed a triumphant smile to cross his face. As scrapes went, he had wiggled out of that one with barely a scratch. It was almost a pity no one would ever know.

They flew throughout the day, overcoming Killian's natural aversion to doing so in the interests of speed, taking a careful, roundabout route. There was a dicey moment as they were trying to skirt the Navy hotbed of Dover, but they managed to outrun it, launch over the Channel in the still-thick fog, and cut into France as close as they could, missing Flemish territory by a hair. By then they were safe, and Killian, reeling from lack of sleep and starting to see things that weren't there, was dispatched below to his cabin, his men being insistent that they could handle the rest.

He went under far and fast, and was quite confused on his waking, as they were (at last, thank God) descending through a wet, smoky Parisian dusk, pinpricks of light guiding them toward the quicksilver coil of the Seine and the Quai des Tuileries, their usual mooring spot. Bracketed by the Pont Royal upstream and the Pont de la Concorde downstream, overlooked by the Musée and Palais du Louvre, it was also a short walk to Place Vendôme, the home of their mysterious buyer. It being past dusk and thus no time to pay a call, the pirate ship landed without a care in the world – the officials here being as well-compensated for their blindness as the ones at the West India Docks, back in London – and the crew strolled into the streets.

Killian and his men chose a tavern at random and swaggered in, settling to their customary pursuits of drink, gambling, and eyeing up the serving wenches. He didn't go with them much. He was loyal to Milah's memory, in his fashion, and as he was already well aware that he would never find another woman to love as he had loved her, it seemed ridiculous even trying. But if they wanted to slide up next to him and give him doe-eyes, he had no objection to that. Slipped his arm around one and let her sit in his lap; she spoke no English and he only gutter French, but they understood each other quite well nonetheless. She was a brunette, as were most of the lasses who caught his eye, ghosts of Milah. Sometimes he paid them extra to leave and boast to his men about what a fine time they'd had, other times he took them back to the _Roger _for a "nightcap," but he never asked their names or remembered them in the morning. It was balm for a broken heart, enough to keep him going until he could do what he needed. He didn't expect to live long after that, anyway. Gold would kill him. He'd made his peace with it. Usually.

He was in a strange dark mood on return to the ship, without company tonight. Lay in bed and stared at the shadows shifting on the cabin ceiling, and wondered when he had grown old. He was only thirty-two, born the same year as the Queen – exactly three months younger, in fact, having come into this world on St Bartholomew's day, 1819 – but sometimes he felt as if he'd lived several centuries. As if time had fallen away into a haze of irrelevance, marking the fact that he had now lived without Liam longer than he'd lived with him, and had nearly reached the same point with Milah.

Yet worst of all, there was nothing he could do about it. Every new day would come, and then pile up into months, and years. And then one of those days, without him noticing precisely when it had happened, he might not be able to recall how exactly her smile had looked, or how she tasted when she kissed him, or the sure stroke of her hand when she drew. Would not remember his brother's laugh, the way Killian always straightened his collar for him, the way the crew would have walked through hell for him, his stubbornness and loyalty and fierce, fierce love. And in no longer remembering, no longer understand the depths of what he had lost.

He feared time. Feared not having enough of it. Feared its eternity. Thought of all the clockwork men and all the turned hourglasses, the wheels and gears that drove the world forward. Wished he could get away from it, wished there was a land where time stopped. _Tick tock. Tick tock. _Every day, every moment, drawing him deeper into the darkness, where he had crawled to make the pain stop, to make it stop, and never found the way back out.

* * *

The day broke pale grey and sunless, and Killian stood in front of the looking glass, dressing carefully. Brown jacquard morning coat, black vest, white shirt with frills on the sleeves, trousers and boots, his gloved false hand instead of his hook, so he bore a resemblance to a prosperous English gentleman and not an airship pirate in grimy black leather. Combed his hair, trimmed his sideburns, and barbered off his perpetually unshaven stubble. Rubbing his chin gingerly, he decided it might do, then slung his satchel over his shoulder. Time to find out just how much this little adventure had cost him.

The streets were almost empty, narrow windows shuttered and iron gates locked. Killian crossed the expansive green lawns of the Jardin des Tuileries, dew dripping from the trees and the mist lending everything a silvery, ethereal cast, then the Rue de Rivoli and the Rue Saint-Honoré. Down the narrow lane beyond, and into the Place Vendôme. Edifices of creamy stone, massive old _h__ôtel particuliers, _rose in a half-moon around the square, the great bronze column at the center with its statue of Napoleon, bracketed by unlit streetlamps. He crossed it, presented himself at the front portico of the _h__ôtel _in the very center, and knocked.

After a long nerve-wracking moment, a white-gloved butler opened it, regarded him with that haughty Gallic look that every Frenchman seemed to have been born with, and arched a thin eyebrow. _"Votre nom et votre affaire, monsieur?"_

_"Je m'appelle Capitaine Killian Jones. Votre maître m'attend." _Two days ago, in fact, but never mind that.

The butler let out a small sigh at the indelicacy of English timekeeping and etiquette in general, but retreated into the house, leaving Killian tapping his foot on the stoop and wondering if he should have brought his sword. He had several pistols in the satchel, but who knew what this mysterious bastard was up to? He did not intend to let his guard down for a moment.

After several minutes, the butler returned. "The master shall see you," he announced, having evidently decided to switch to English rather than suffer the indignity of hearing his mother tongue from the lips of a pirate. "Through that corridor and into the solarium, monsieur."

_"Merci beaucoup." _Killian swept him a flourishing bow, and proceeded down a long hall to the expansive, glass-paned room at the rear. It was as bedecked as lavishly as Versailles, crystal chandeliers and full-length mirrors, delicate chaises and claw-footed chairs, and aether lamps, rather than oil, burning with clear, fragile golden light against the grey of the morning.

In the middle, stirring his tea in a porcelain cup, sat a tall man in an exquisitely tailored suit, with dark copper skin and thick black curls tumbling luxuriantly to his shoulders. He was paging through a stack of Parisian dailies – _Le National, La Minerve, _and the notorious rebel broadsheet, _Le P__ére Duchesne. _Without glancing up, he said in a crisp, cut-glass aristocratic British accent, "Do come closer, Captain. I've ordered breakfast for us both, it should be just a moment."

"Ah – of course." Killian moved to take the other chair at the table. Feeling oddly out of his element, even though he was grateful not to have been turned summarily into the streets again, he waited as the other man finished his perusal, then looked up.

"You," he said. "At last. I was beginning to suspect I had placed my trust in the wrong pirate. Do you have the compass, then?"

"Aye."

"May I see it?"

"You may." Killian made no move to open the satchel. "If you have what I want in return."

"A fellow who does not mince words, I see. So tell me, Captain, how you explain your delay?"

"A. . . momentary lapse in judgment."

"Regrettable. Do you suspect there may be another one?"

"Not at all."

"One should surely hope so. Especially considering the lapse was of such magnitude to take precedence over your stated commitment to me. So, then. What became of him?"

Killian frowned. "Who?"

"Will Scarlet, of course."

"How did you – "

The man shrugged. "Firstly, I had you under surveillance, and secondly, I have the rather more mundane organ of the newspapers." He held out the morning edition of _Le National. _"The French are editorializing most gleefully on the present embarrassment for England. Indeed, it is all anyone can talk about. So tell me, why did you not merely put Scarlet overboard in the Channel and have done with it?"

"I find that the threat of violence often serves a man better than the actual application of it."

"Ah, a gentleman pirate. We shall have to discourse on our respective philosophies of power at a later date, Machiavelli and Marx and the rest – have you heard of Marx? A young Prussian rabble-rouser who publishes various socialist screeds, I find him appalling – but at the moment, I am more concerned with our present business. Ah, our food." The man smiled as the butler solicitously laid two settings of china and crystal, and began to serve them from steaming silver tureens: a traditional English breakfast, with bacon, eggs, fried tomatoes and mushrooms, black pudding, baked beans, sausages, and toast. Killian was in fact bloody hungry, having subsisted on a mostly liquid diet the past several days, but refrained from picking up knife and fork until his host had done likewise. They each tucked their napkins into their cravats, then began to eat.

Killian was still somewhat off his footing from the revelation that his potential patron had had him watched, though it did explain why he betrayed no surprise at his late arrival. "So," he said, when the silence stretched on. "Are you still interested in my services?"

"Indubitably, my dear Captain."

"Well then. I'll need to know who I'm working for."

"How discourteous of me. As was made known to you in the preliminary stages, I am late of the Ottoman Empire, though for political reasons I have chosen to seek sanctuary in Europe. It is no secret that it is a sham, a pale shadow of its glory days, dissolute and declining." His nostrils flared. "In any event, you may call me Jafar."

"A pleasure." Killian hefted the satchel. "You asked about the compass?"

"I did." Jafar sipped his tea, then set the cup elegantly back on the saucer. "As I have already requested once to see it, shall we not make it twice?"

Killian hesitated, then undid the buckle, reached in, and pulled it out. He handed it over to his host,who snapped open a small case, removed a jeweler's loupe, and studied it intently. "Magnificent," he murmured. "Just as I hoped. Exquisite."

"So then. You'll be paying for it, as agreed?"

"Patience." Jafar set down the compass and the loupe and leaned back. "You – or Will Scarlet, who was evidently the one to do the actual thieving – have done well, but surely you understand that that was only a very minor step. An audition piece, if you will. For what I propose, an actual expenditure of effort and risk will be required. At the end of it, assuming I am satisfied, we shall both have what we want. Which would be, to wit, Robert Gold dead at our feet. Do I have your attention, Captain?"

Killian was very still. At last he said tersely, "Aye."

"Good. I thought so. After all, breaking off our association at this point, no matter how lackadaisically you have hereto treated it, would not be the most sensible move for a wanted man, would it?" Jafar peeled an egg, placed it into the eggcup, and decapitated it with a spoon. "You must know you can't kill Gold by yourself. It's been what, nearly a decade of trying? Although I am not sure it _was_ trying, because the results are quite deplorable either way."

"I assure you, I've been doing everything I – "

"Don't fret. I don't require a testimonial. What I _will_ require, however, is results. Nor am I in the business of offering second chances, and you have already and unwisely burned a first one. But as it is rare to find a man as devoted to this project as you, I have decided to make an exception. I advise you, however, not to think that I will do so again. Time is precious, Captain, especially mine. Though once my purpose has been achieved, that will be of less moment. In fact, none whatsoever."

"How do you mean?"

Jafar smiled enigmatically. Then he said, "Killian Jones, born in 1819 in County Louth, Ireland. Brought to London at the age of five by his father Davy, subsequently abandoned, lived for three years on the streets. Found at the age of eight by his elder brother, Liam Jones, then a junior officer in His Majesty's Royal Navy, and brought aboard ship as a cabin boy. Grew up on the HMS _Jewel of the Realm, _eventually achieving promotion to lieutenant at the age of seventeen, his brother having reached the rank of captain some years previously. In 1837, sailed to North America to assist the British Government in putting down the Canadian Rebellion, yet instead lost his brother and decided to turn pirate, emerging as one of the Crown's most dedicated and notorious foes. In 1844, lost his hand and his long-time lover, the former wife of our friend, Robert Gold. In 1845, re-emerged as Captain Hook, selling food to starving peasants in Ireland during the potato famine one day and burglarizing innocent travelers the next. In 1848, smuggled weapons to the rebels during the Europe-wide revolts, for which he received the first of several treason convictions and death sentences. Quite a life, wouldn't you say?"

Killian did his best to keep his expression under control. After a moment he said coolly, "And the point of that recitation was. . .?"

"To show that unlike you, I do not carelessly enter into commerce with individuals whom I know nothing about. And also that both of us, having pasts we would prefer to forget, are the ideal candidates for this work. What if they could simply. . . not be that way?"

"I still don't follow."

"I suppose that is preferable at this point." Jafar spread marmalade on his toast. "Ordering you to steal the compass was to see if you could achieve what I truly want from you. Robert Gold has in his possession a bottle, one of a set of three. I have, after considerable bother, expense, and misadventure, acquired the other two. I want the third. Procure it, and the reward would be. . ."

"What?"

"Why, more wealth than you can imagine."

"I don't know, I can imagine quite a bit."

"Of course. Pirate." Jafar raised a dark eyebrow. "I do not, however, mean the merely financial. I mean the sort of things you have wanted all your life. It _was _a shame to lose your brother so early, wasn't it? Dashing captain, loyally serving the British Empire? And your love? Milah?"

Killian's throat was clenched hard. "And now you'll tell me that you have some deep admiration for the Empire? From your exile here in _la République?"_

Jafar laughed out loud. "_Liberté, égalité, fraternité__ – _how stirring, isn't it? A pity it will not outlive the year. Take it from me, Louis-Napoléon intends to reclaim imperial glory for himself and the Bonapartes. They've been plotting the coup since August, at Saint-Cloud. _Rubicon, _I believe they call it, after Julius Caesar – a perilous individual to model oneself on, especially considering what came of his attempt to make himself an emperor. Do you have the Latin, Captain? Or Greek? I suppose not. A life of pillage and brigandry does not lend itself to study."

"You could stop it," Killian pointed out. "Sell the information. If you know so much."

"I could." Jafar shrugged. "But to what purpose? Kings rise and fall, and you and I have elected to serve none of them. Earthly power is played at by children who know very little of it, whereas I am concerned with its deepest workings. It will not surprise you to learn that I too am a sorcerer, but never part of that mob of infidels, idiots, and fools that it has pleased the Crown to call the 'Royal Society.' I don't suppose you realize how remarkable the English view of magic is, the number of peasants who practice it. In Russia, only the boyars may occupy themselves with such a thing; it is death for a serf to even speak those words, _zolotoy pyli, _gold dust. Here in France and in the Papal States, the Catholic Church holds sway with tyranny and ignorance. Everywhere else in Europe, it is one of the two. Magic is a powerful man's pastime, or a madman's vain pursuit – strange how that should be the case, don't you think? Yet you English and your confounded populist spirit somehow carry on. Why is that?"

"I spend as little time as possible thinking about the English. I find it better for my sanity."

"Lies. You think of them always." Jafar's gaze had gone distant, opaque. "In certain things, I admire them. Yet even here in France, though they are commonly surprised that I speak French – _bien sûr, monsieur, et six autres – _they grow used to it. They admire me, they wonder and marvel at me, they hang onto my every word. I am a pet, perhaps, a curiosity, but an adored and revered one. In England, always, I am a boy. They expect I am there to carry their luggage or to shine their shoes or to wait their tables, for I am a coolie and a servant and whatever else could I be? Which, of course, I am not, but one brown man looks very alike to another in the eyes of Great Britain and its East India Company, its Dark Continent, its old Jamaican sugar plantations and slave ships, its new-caught sullen peoples, half-devil and half-child. And you, Irish Catholic scum of the streets turned pirate, turning your back on the very Royal Navy that defeated Napoleon _la premiere – _is it any wonder they loathe you in equal measure? There is nothing but rot at that country's heart, though I suspect I needn't tell you. When the three bottles are mine, it is one of the first things I shall see to."

"The third one of which you expect me to steal for you, from Robert Gold."

"Oh, I don't expect it. It is merely what will and must happen."

"And this will end with him dead, and everything he has ever worked for destroyed?"

"In a far more satisfying way than you can ever imagine, Captain."

Killian hesitated a final moment. He was well aware that he was caught in the eye of a serpent, that this was a dangerous and delicate dance that could end either with his revenge splendidly accomplished or he himself stabbed to death in a gutter, but there was no present alternative. He was also used to holding his own with treacherous business partners, lethal bedfellows, and even outright lunatics, and saw nothing Jafar could throw at him that he had not weathered many times before. The inconvenient obstacles had been removed, and now, at last, it was time.

"Well then," he said, and smiled, the merest baring of teeth. "I'd say you have yourself a pirate."

* * *

The London fog was yellow with burning coal, the smoke of a thousand chimneys, the pelting, acrid rain, and the dim glow of the streetlamps, lit even though it was the middle of the day. Despite the miserable weather, Emma was afoot, having told the hansom driver to drop her off several streets away; she always liked to keep her movements varied, never returning to one place for more than a day in a row or being seen consistently leaving another. With her boots, breeches, dark cloak, hood, and vest, she was barely recognizable as a woman, so that even if she was spotted, the observer would not connect the rather harried gentleman with the proper lady recently seen about the premises. She had been up half the night pursuing the lead Jefferson had given her; she knew who the Merry Men were, as did nearly everyone. They modeled themselves after the legendary thieves of the same name, heroic vigilantes to a destitute, dirty, hungry underclass. They had even saved her life once when she was delirious from hunger and cold and untreated pneumonia, allowing her to seek shelter and treatment at one of the hospitals for the poor. She felt a strange, unexpected twinge of conscience at the idea of taking one of them down now, in service of the man who everyone in the underworld unqualifiedly hated, but she didn't have room for their kind of scruples. Money was money, a job was a job. Though she'd still have to be careful. She didn't want this to result in Gold destroying the entire underworld, which might well be exactly what he was after. The only question was how to cut free in time.

Pushing the doubt firmly out of her mind, Emma turned the corner into Harley Street and splashed down several doors to Archie's. Rang his bell, then let herself in, glancing around warily. She hadn't been able to track down the Merry Men long enough to talk one of them into revealing the identity of their former partner in crime, anyway, but _something_ was going on. She'd never seen so many Royal Navy airships combing the skies, heard whispers of an ambush on the Thames, and she could put the pieces together well enough. Something, somewhere, had tipped them off, and she needed to be sure of what.

Emma rounded the corner into the waiting room, then crossed the floor, knocked on the doctor's office door – then, when she got no answer, frowned and pulled it open. "Archie, what – ?"

The doctor jerked upright and whirled around, pointing something at her, which it took Emma a baffled moment to recognize was actually a gun. She had never known Archie to wield a weapon or even raise his voice, being one of the gentlest and most trusting souls she had ever met, and stared at him, stunned. "What are you doing? It's me!"

"I – Emma." Archie stuffed the pistol out of sight. "I didn't recognize you. I – I thought – "

"What the hell were you doing?" Emma shut the door with a snap. "For that matter, what _have _you been doing? Who did you think I was?"

"I. . ." Archie was turning a slow, florid crimson. "I. . . I found out the name of the ship. Hook's ship. It's the _Jolly Roger. _And he. . . he was here. In person."

"In _person?" _Emma repeated, voice climbing several octaves. "Did you think I was _him? _What was he doing here? Did he learn you were snooping after him, did – "

Archie held up his hands, cringing against the onslaught of questions. Biting back her first instinct to pick him up by the ankles, turn him upside down, and shake him, Emma took a seat and badgered him until he came out with the full and remarkable story. Had been to the Admiralty, made them suspicious, hoped he hadn't done her any damage, then had been working late the next night and emerged to be taken prisoner by the very pirate captain himself, who wanted a wolfbite potion for his accomplice. This Archie had felt it prudent to supply, but the pirate had departed halfway through the night and left his accomplice. He had never returned.

"And that's it?" Emma repeated. "He just vanished into thin air? What happened to the other one? What else did he say or do? I want a detailed record, I want – "

"The second one, he. . ." Archie was looking deeply unhappy. "He. . . ah. . ."

"Oh God. Tell me you didn't put him in the cellar with Ruby."

"By the time we realized the. . . situation, it was light out, I didn't dare risk anyone seeing him leave the house." Archie gazed at her imploringly. "Just until tonight, when. . ."

"Archie. Attic or cellar?"

"I – he – "

"Suppose we'll start with attic." Emma got to her feet and strode out of the office, Archie sprinting after her in a panic. Started up the narrow stairs, surreptitiously unholstering her derringer and checking that the lone bullet was in the chamber. The small-caliber "stocking gun" was only fatal at nearly point-blank range, such as in a disagreement over cards in a smoky saloon, but she didn't want to kill the fugitive – just, if need be, hurt him enough to stop him from getting away. She needed him alive, needed whatever elusive connection to his (former?) captain he possessed, and every potential informant was different. Some broke at the first sign that she'd come to play rough, while others held out to the bitter end. Most could resist all the vinegar in the world, but turned into babbling fools at a few drops of honey. Her mind was already working, sorting through the possibilities, as she mounted the last few steps, Archie still on her heels trying vainly to dissuade her, and jammed the attic door open.

At once, the blanketed shape that had been fast asleep on the broken chaise longue sat bolt upright with a yelp, rolled over, hit the floor, and ran as fast as he could toward the skylight – at which he did not get far, due to a miscellaneous heap of junk clipping him smartly across the knees and sending him sprawling. He was no more than twenty-five, with short, spiky brown hair, big dark eyes, and prominent ears, and currently looked disheveled, breathless, and heartily outraged – he had only seen Archie, not yet her. "Bloody hell, if you wanted to scare me to bloody death there were easier ways than poppin' up like a – "

Emma recognized him. Recognized him immediately, in fact, and felt her stomach lurch at the unfathomable stroke of luck. It was him, the thief who had stolen from the Exhibition, the one she had been trying to track down the Merry Men in order to identify. Damn, was Archie actually keeping London's most wanted criminal tucked up here like a houseguest, waiting to let him go when it was dark? It was either boundless compassion or terminal naïveté, and as the young man continued to stare around wildly, Emma changed tack. She stowed the derringer swiftly back in its holster, then put on her most concerned face and ran toward him. "Oh, I'm so terribly sorry!" she cried, throwing herself to her knees. "That was me, I didn't see – oh my, I didn't know that – are you all right?"

The young man stiffened, with the reflexive tension of someone expecting to be caught, but Emma kept her expression utterly guileless and innocent, brimming with solicitous concern, her long hair spilling out of the hood. She snatched up his hand and pressed it to her bosom, the Angel of Charity personified, leaning into him. "Oh, sir. Please tell me you're not hurt."

His eyes took her in from head to toe, clearly thinking that he would perform a thousand pratfalls if it meant a beautiful blonde woman would swoop down on him and express swooning concern for his well-being. "Aye, I'm – feeling much better," he managed, blinking. "Not a thing wrong, actually. Rubbish leapt out and ambushed me when I wasn't lookin'."

"Oh, I'm _so _glad," Emma simpered, clinging to him like a limpet as she helped him to his feet, dusting him off all over. "I'm so clumsy, you know. I didn't even know that door stuck. My sister has to see Dr. Hopper, but you know – " she giggled fatuously – "I have to chaperone her and it's _so _dreadfully dull, but I was looking for clothes to get out of these_ rags_, my dress was _ruined _by the rain and I had to borrow _these, _but do you think I want to walk around looking like an _undertaker, _it's hideous, I don't know what to – "

Jaw agape, the young man stared at Archie, who was still lurking guiltily in the doorway, and then back at her. "I, er. I'll be glad to help you find some clothes to get out of, miss. Er, I mean into. _Into. _Not into you, I mean. The clothes." He paused. "Bloody hell."

"I'll just. . ." Archie sidled onto the stairway landing. "Be going, then."

"Yes," Emma ordered him. "Go see my – my _sister, _you don't need to look after me – I can take care of myself, can't I?" She giggled, pressing herself into the young man's side. "You never told me you had a secret _visitor! _This is all so terribly exciting, I don't know what to say!"

Archie, clearly suspecting that she had lost her mind, backed away slowly, though not without one final look begging her to, in fact, not say anything at all. Then he turned and fled down the stairs, in order to get as far away as possible before she became any further unhinged. This left Emma in undisputed custody of her man (or one of them, at least) and she had to think quickly about how she wanted to proceed. The first and most obvious option was likely also the easiest, as well as the least messy. "What's your name?" she cooed, selecting one of her own prepared aliases. "I'm Elizabeth Turner, it's _so _lovely to meet you."

"I'm. . ." The young man hesitated. "Bill. Bill. . . Crimson."

"Really?" She fluttered her eyelashes at him, at the same time trying to decide if that matched anyone she'd heard about. It was obviously a false name, and quite a bit clumsier than hers. Keeping tight hold of him, she towed him down the stairs to the second floor and into one of the gloomy sitting rooms, talking all the while, and artfully managed to bring the subject around to Captain Hook and the rumors aswirl in London. She simply couldn't _believe_ that someone could do that, her father (a high-ranking civil servant in Her Majesty's Government) was utterly _obsessed _with bringing pirates to justice, but she had always thought them terribly romantic herself, on and on – while at the same time plying "Bill" with brandy from an old bottle in the cupboard, insisting that it was good for the nerves. She was just breathlessly revealing Elizabeth's deepest and most secret desire to run away and have marvelous adventures when he interrupted, "It's not bloody like that, you know."

"What?" Emma pouted prettily. "What do you mean?"

"I – knew him, all right? Captain Hook."

She gasped, pressing her fingers to her mouth. "Was he _dashing?"_

"No!" Bill took a bracing gulp of brandy. "He was a two-faced, deceitful, back-stabbing, black-hearted bastard, and for some bloody reason I chose to take up with him anyway. For which he repaid me by abandoning me and leaving me to get bloody hung out to dry in London, now that I can't get into the Night Market no more, take all the profits from our little venture for his-damn-self and – " With that, realizing his danger, he screeched to a halt.

Emma blinked. "What do you mean?"

Bill searched her face, apparently found it utterly undisturbed by the remotest notion that he was a wanted fugitive, and relaxed fractionally. "Nothing. But trust me, it would do us all a bloody favor if your father put 'im out of business. Damned if I know where he's scarpered off to now, but I'll let you in on a little secret. The ship – his ship – it's got a false registration. The _Red Beauty. _That's what they note it as whenever he's passin' through the West India Docks, because he's got half of 'em in his bloody pocket to boot."

Emma had to work hard to keep the delight out of her expression. "Ooh," she said instead, doubtfully. "That does sound rather wicked. Is he truly –? "

"He's a bloody arsehole, is what he is." Brooding into his glass, Bill polished off the rest in a pull. "Now, look. You'll not be telling anyone you met me here, all right?"

"Why? You're not wicked too, are you?"

"Course not. Just rather you didn't." Under his breath, he added, "Though I'm fucked anyway, so what's it bloody matter?"

"Oh, Bill, I'm sure you didn't do _anything_ wrong." With these and other platitudes, Emma kept up the "conversation" for another five or ten minutes, as not to be suspicious, then affected to hear Dr. Hopper calling for her – doubtless her sister's session was over and they had to be off, but it had been _so _lovely meeting him and if he was ever visiting in the future, she'd simply _adore _to see him again. She leaned close as she said so, as if to give him the impression that he was free to use his imagination as to what that might entail. No proper Victorian young lady would be alone in the company of a young man without a chaperone, so them having had this conversation at all was, she conveyed, delightfully scandalous and she did so hope he did not think less of her for it. With that, she tripped out of the room – then the instant the door shut behind her, dropped the pretense and began to run.

With barely a word to Archie to assure him that she wasn't going to snitch on him, Emma pulled up the hood of her cloak and hurried out into the rain. A swift change of clothes and a wet cab ride later, she was at the West India Docks, posing as a wealthy merchant's wife insistent that the port authorities were overcharging them on their export tariffs, and demanding to see their books to examine for herself. Cowed, confused, and clearly not used to dealing with assertive women – she overheard more than one comment that her husband _should_ have sent a solicitor or a secretary to handle this – they did as ordered, scuttling to fetch the records and allowing her to page through them, all the while insisting that their accuracy was impeccable and if madam could simply take their word for it, everything would be solved. Emma supposed that if Hook wasn't the only one taking advantage of their willingness to commit fraud, then indeed they might not want anyone taking too close a look at their cooked books, but she wasn't here to put the fear of God (or at least HM Board of Customs) into them. She was just looking for. . . aha.

Her finger stopped on one of the lines, noting that the _Red Beauty _had been in port just over a week ago, and according to the manifest, had arrived from Paris. It was possible that Hook had lied about that as well, but it was more likely that he was confident – overconfident – that between the false name and the fact that they were all paid off anyway, he hadn't bothered. Flipping back through the pages, she discovered long gaps where they hadn't recorded anything at all, ports of origin that were clearly flagrant fabrications (Svalbard, home to one of the richest aether deposits in the world, was crawling with gunships and harvesters from every country in Europe – not even a pirate would be able to get in and out of there incognito) and here and there, a grain of apparent truth. Arriving from Stockholm, Vienna, Dublin, Prague – but most often, Paris. He must have some kind of established base there, some kind of hideout.

Emma's lips pursed speculatively, wondering if she was going to have to find an excuse to make a visit to _La Ville-Lumière. _If she was him, she'd be avoiding London until the heat died down, but then again, he had been here, in Archibald Hopper's office, just a few nights ago. He clearly thought he played by an entirely different set of rules, that the limitations of mere mortals did not apply to him, and she was well aware of how hubris and arrogance sometimes took her marks down before she had to do any work herself. She could always return to the attic and Bill, try to squeeze him for more information, but he too would be trying to get the hell out of the city, and she couldn't count on him as a resource.

Work done, Emma snapped the logbook shut, warned the docksmen that she was still very displeased, and headed back into the city, thinking hard. Bill had mentioned something curious about the Night Market shutting him out, and while difficult, it would not be impossible to track down his true identity through it. Either that or –

She passed a newsie-boy, and stopped dead.

Blinking from the front page of all the papers was the face of the very young man she had entertained with her acting skills earlier that afternoon. Above, the headlines blared: **BRITAIN'S ENEMY REVEALED: EXHIBITION BURGLED BY FORMER MEMBER OF FIENDISH 'MERRY MEN.'. **It turned out that the suspect was one Will Scarlet, five-and-twenty years of age or thereabouts, born in London, once part of the thieves' guild, now an associate of notorious rebel and traitor, Captain Hook. Any citizen found to be aiding or sheltering him would likewise be subject to the fullest wrath of the law.

Emma snorted; "Bill Crimson," her left foot. She did hope that Archie saw this, as it might help dissuade him from his habit of stashing dangerous individuals in his premises, but if not, there was nothing she could do to help him. Pressing a distracted thruppence into the greedy hand of the newsie, she took the paper and stowed it in her satchel, then glanced up at the sky. The drowned light was receding from the clouds and the cobbles, a hoary violet pall falling over them instead, and Emma waited until it was sufficiently advanced for her purposes. Then she stepped off into an alley, pulled her key from her bodice, and a moment later, was inside the Night Market, exhaling in relief at the familiarity, the closest thing she had to a home.

Emma bought a Cornish pasty and set off. She needed new cartridges for her derringer and a few other items, and she'd be here until midnight at least. She hadn't given up on finding the Merry Men either, whether or not she knew Will Scarlet's name, and was toying with the idea of trying to find which London firm had the false papers for the _Red Beauty _on file; it wouldn't be too hard, if she put her mind (or Archie's) to it. Unraveling that spider's web might reveal a wealth of information on the pirate's dealings, hiding places, assets, and strategies, but she couldn't decide if she should pull the trigger just yet. If Hook caught wind of it, or if he was suddenly exposed and bereft of his asylums, he'd run for it and hide out God-knew-where, and she wanted to lure him in, make him think the danger had passed. If the news of the Royal Navy ambush was legitimate. . . well, that was a difficulty, but she'd think of something.

Emma dodged an oneiromancer wanting to read her dreams for a silver penny and an eyetooth, looking around for Jefferson's booth. Not that he was in the least likely to be helpful two times in a row, but as usual, he would be her first point of contact. But as much as she squinted from side to side, she couldn't catch a glimpse of him.

That in itself wasn't terribly surprising. Even in the black market, Jefferson was not always the most welcome of individuals, and if he had once more been accosting passing magicians and ordering them to produce something other than rabbits out of hats, he could have decided it a wise thing to lie low for a while. And the Market changed nightly, vendors and customers alike. She didn't want to get herself too indebted to him, anyway. Jefferson's favors never came cheap.

Still, in his absence, that meant she should find someone else to assist the investigation, and she was just starting to run through potential options – perhaps Marco, the kindly old woodworker who made magical toys, or Leroy, the dwarf who worked long spells in the aether mines up north and was as gossipy as a Strand fishwife; if he was down in London, he was a valuable resource for finding out who was buying the most quantities of the golden dust and where it was going. If Gold did want Hook dead for personal reasons, it stood to reason that the pirate might be interfering with his power supply. Or perhaps –

Emma, however, never got a chance to finish that thought. At that moment, a frightened babel of voices broke out, and she was jostled from side to side as several alarmed personages hurried past. She frowned, but didn't see any reason for alarm, and started to turn back to her investigation. Marco, it would have to be. With the onset of the autumn gales, aether storms would be coming thick and fast, meaning that Leroy would have all the work he could sink a pickax into. So she just had to –

Then it came again. Louder and sharper, a crack like musket fire, a sudden and general ripple of panic, followed by an incandescent white explosion – shouting and shoving, the crowded square tripping and trampling, and a complete panic as everyone fled in all directions at once. But Emma herself remained rooted to the spot, unable to believe what she was seeing.

The Night Market was under attack.


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

All the running lights were quenched, all the shields were raised, the cloaking device whirring and ticking like a clockwork heart, and all the guns primed and ready to fire – if they were caught again this time, to hell with secrecy and subterfuge, the only hope would be to blast their way free – as Killian Jones steered the _Jolly Roger _through the dark skies of London, carefully evading the spotters' beacons that winked like earthbound stars from the belfry of St. Paul's, Big Ben, and somewhere from a dark, forbidding old stone mansion in Grosvenor Square, the headquarters of the Royal Society. _Where is Gold most likely to keep one magical artifact of staggering power? _Surely not in the Society archives, where any meddling junior member could accidentally (or not-so-accidentally) stumble on it. Perhaps in Kensington Palace itself, where he could keep the best eye on it. Probably not at his alma mater of Christ Church, in Oxford, and certainly not in any of the working-class slums of Glasgow where he'd grown up. Aye, then. Kensington seemed the most likely option, but even Killian would need a formidable plan of attack before attempting to break in there. From time to time, other petty thieves or underworld impresarios decided to take their chances trying to get at the priceless wealth, the staggering power of the treasures said to be hidden therein. None of them were ever heard of again.

Well then. Time to start thinking. His new patron had supplied him with a few useful odds and ends, as well as a considerable advance in cash and his trump card, which Killian hoped would not be needed. Either way, however, he should get a bloody move on. Jafar was expecting a progress report in a fortnight, and the tone in which he had said it implied that if Killian had no progress to report, that would shortly be the least of his concerns. And now that he had shut himself of Scarlet (he hoped he didn't run into the bugger accidentally; _that _would be awkward) he fondly hoped that the Night Market would see fit to let him back in. If not, well. . . it would be a challenge, but he liked those fine. Some sorts more than others.

Killian's eyes swept the rooftops of London and the black-paint spill of the Thames, trying to judge a suitable landing spot. He didn't want to set down in the middle of another ambush, and nor to return to his customary berth at the West India Docks; it was a fair wager they'd already dug up that little connection and hauled off the poor old embezzling port authority to prison or the noose. Even if not, it was still not a wise idea – it made him predictable, traceable, and if there was a general alert out for them, he'd have to pay all of London to keep their mouths shut, and that was clearly never going to happen.

At last, Killian selected a remote, rundown outpost on the far side of Southwark, among unused warehouses and broken brick pilings, tenements and wharfs that looked as if they hadn't been rebuilt since the Great Fire. This was known territory for some of the more monstrous elements of the underworld, and he checked that his pistol was loaded with silver bullets; after all the trouble he had gone to in order to de-wolf Will, the irony would be literally murderous if he got attacked by one now. But there was a shallow delta to land the _Roger _on, and as long as the cloaking device held out, they should be safe. He eased her in and guided her to a halt, dark, fetid water slopping at the bow as the anchor was dropped.

No ambush. He was already doing better than last time. Killian pulled up his flight goggles and wiped his face, leaving a long smear of grime on the sleeve of his jacket, then called, "Mr. Smee. I'm out to make a few enquiries. I want the ship fully repaired and ready to fly to Africa if need be, by the time I return." They'd made it back from Paris all right, but the broken timbers and the secondhand stolen lodestone had been fighting him most of the way, and they definitely did not want to take their chances with a second hasty exit. "Is that clear?"

"Aye, Cap'n."

"Good." Buckling on his sword, Killian strode to the side, then jumped onto the mossy, rotten quay, which creaked alarmingly beneath his boots. He turned up the collar of his coat, then checked the sky; still a good while before dawn. Time enough to take his chances, then.

He strolled into the dark den of buildings, broken windows gazing down like cataract-blinded eyes, and chose the first likely-looking door. Realizing that if the Night Market was still not disposed to let him in, this was liable to be very unpleasant, he removed the key from his pocket and jammed it in all at once, before he could do something stupid like lose his nerve.

It didn't burn him like last time, and it even turned, sending a hot rush of hope through him. But when the door swung open, it revealed. . . nothing. Just a dark, dusty, empty space, cobwebbed and cold, no bigger than a closet. He stared at it, then blinked several times, as if in expectation that this would somehow alter the situation. It did not. How could it just be. . . gone?

Clearly, something had happened while he was otherwise occupied, and something big. More than just the Royal Navy being conveniently at hand to ambush him, more than him dumping Will Scarlet into the middle of a city frothing for his head (he felt a brief twinge of guilt, then reminded himself that he'd done nothing wrong) and it would greatly befit him to discover what. The total disappearance of the Night Market (if that was indeed what this was, and not just a signal of his continuing disfavor) would send shock waves through the underworld, leave it broken up and on the run – far easier to be rounded up and hunted down. _Just as the Royal Society has wanted to do for damn well ages._

Thinking of that, and everything else, decided Killian very firmly indeed that this was no coincidence. Pulling the key out and swinging the door shut, he set off deeper into the narrow alleys of Southwark, past wooden signs creaking in the wind, few streetlamps to light a lost traveler's way. There _were, _however, plenty of taverns and opium-dens and houses for other sorts of pleasure, red glass lanterns casting bloody shadows. He paused before one such establishment, tempted – not due to a sudden and unavoidable carnal itch that had to be scratched, but rather because whores were inveterate and well-informed gossips – then decided against it. Most of them were ordinary sorts, oblivious to the magical underworld and happy to stay that way, them knowing what was good for them. He wouldn't find what he needed here.

Another few blocks, and his gourmand's eye lit upon a suitable establishment: the White Rabbit. It was one he'd patronized before, and where not even he was the most notorious of the clientele. The owner was rumored to be a vampire, so you had to stay on your toes (as well as wonder what went into the drinks) but it was an underworlders' haunt, and thus likely up to date on whatever scuttlebutt there was to be had. So he came to a precise halt, made sure his gun was loose in the holster, and ducked under the dark, dripping lintel.

Despite the late hour it was crowded, packed up the walls toward the low, smoke-blackened beams, and he had to edge and jostle through tables and booths and boots to the back corner, where he took a seat and signaled the bartender. Presently the appropriate wench was dispatched with the appropriate poison, and Killian took a deep swig, letting the rum run down the back of his throat. He always felt more whole, more held together in all his shattered pieces, when he had a drink. Not that he couldn't live without it; just that it steadied him, drowned out the voices for a while. He tossed the wench a coin, and as she reached for it, caught her wrist in his hook and pinned it. "What's happened to the Night Market?"

Looking startled, the girl tried to free herself. "I don't – something's happened to it?"

"Aye, otherwise I wouldn't be asking." He smiled at her – charmingly, but with teeth. "If you don't know, how about you go find me someone who does, eh? Discreetly, and there's more where that came from." He nodded at the coin, lying shining on the table.

Flustered, the maid promised she would, pulled away and scooped up the coin, then hurried into the crowd. Killian took another sip, glancing around for a second source – never wise to put all of one's eggs in the same basket, and it would be useful to see if everyone had the same tale, or if it was nothing but wild hearsay and speculation. He was still clinging onto the possibility that nothing had happened at all, and it was just one of the Market's quirks – perhaps he could find someone else who could still get in and finagle them to let him tag along – get on with it and do what he'd came for, find the way, give Jafar what he wanted and be sure it was all –

These and other such thoughts were flapping to and fro in Killian's head, like a flock of birds startled off their perch, and he was not having much success in chasing any of them down. But that was when, all at once, they ceased to matter. Shriveled up and faded out like they had never been, and the only blessed thing he could do was stare.

For that, just then, was when he saw her.

* * *

Emma Swan still had no idea how she had gotten out of the pandemonium of the burning Night Market, as men in blue uniforms, wearing bronze masks and armed with truncheons, descended like a plague of locusts, setting stalls alight and harrowing out their terrified owners. A few tried to fight back with hastily conjured spells; Emma heard the flare and then the sickening thud, could see bodies sprawled unmoving, steam rising from them. She did not stop for anything, did not look back, head down and running for all she was worth, until she found a door and toppled through it, slamming it behind her. Then she was in the quiet, dark streets of London, and the chaos and screams and smoke might have been a thousand miles away. Or more, depending on where the Market had been tonight.

Emma stood gulping air, scrubbing the stinging soot out of her eyes, trying to recollect herself. She had a horrible suspicion about what had just happened, and would have given anything to be wrong – if she could even find a way to go about investigating it. But Gold had wanted the Night Market and the underworld brought down for gods' years, and now that he had cozened a certain bounty hunter into his service, someone who was a part of that world and knew exactly where to find it. . . keep tabs on her, her whereabouts, and then when she went back in, have a squad of storm troopers ready to follow her. Make it plain that when he said he would destroy whoever had stolen from the Exhibition, and anyone who may have helped them, he meant it.

An involuntary shudder rattled through Emma. If she was the one responsible for this. . . plenty of the underworlders would see it that way, that she had already sold out by agreeing to work for their supreme enemy, and was now a traitor to be hunted down. But what was she supposed to do? Refuse? She would conveniently be made to disappear as well. Caught by a trap on either side, used as a pawn in Gold's game. _Son of a bitch. _She had better hope that his money wasn't just spun straw, that his promise to turn her into a great lady, set for life, was more than just opportune lies. Otherwise, she had nothing and no one.

Emma bit her lip until she tasted blood, took one more steadying breath, then set off. There was a tavern in Southwark she needed to get to – a rough and seedy place, like most of where she spent her time, and an underworlders' haunt to boot, but it was where one could often find a dangerous young magician known only as Pan, a rising star of sorts in this line of work. He was the kind of individual who should only be approached if there was no other choice, but Emma did not currently see that there _was _another. Pan was extremely good at vanishing those who needed to vanish for a while, and if she could strike a deal with him and put herself under his protection, even the most wrathful underworld vigilantes would think twice before going after her. What such protection was likely to cost her was a thought that Emma determinedly pushed aside. Raw survival, of saving her own neck, was her priority right now. Everything else could wait.

The moon was low in the sky by the time she, having taken a long and circuitous detour to avoid the Met and their werewolves hunting for stragglers, finally stumbled up to the tavern – the White Rabbit, which she had always found a rather whimsical name for a place that saw the kind of business this one did. Pulling up her hood, she checked once more that she had not been followed, and stepped inside.

As usual, it was crowded, dim, and smoky, patrons sipping absinthe and amaretto and even more exotic liqueurs from grimy glasses, puffing on pipes, playing faro and dead man's draw with tattered cards, or keeping to themselves in corners, veiled by dark hoods or masks, watching with glittering eyes. Emma glanced around, checking if Pan had set up shop in his usual spot, but she didn't see him. Not that that meant he wasn't here. Sometimes you had to sit down and call for him, and then look to see him next to you as if he'd been there all along. Sometimes you'd see a shadow moving on the wall, but with no body to cast it, and he would arrive much later. She took a deep breath, and started to go find which one it was this time – but never got there.

For that, just then, was when she saw him.

For a long, stunned instant, Emma did not quite believe her eyes. Could not believe that she had gotten so ungodly lucky as to almost literally stumble across her target when she hadn't even really been looking for him – but it _was_ him, it had to be. She recognized the face from the records she'd looked up, and a gleaming metal hook served in place of his left hand, resting casually on the scarred wood of the table. She had to fight the shock she felt at his appearance; the grainy black-and-white daguerreotypes did not do him justice. He had a striking, physical, uncommon beauty, almost faerie-like, and it put her utterly on her guard, raised her highest walls. Men who looked like that tended to take ruthless advantage of it, and she already knew exactly what he was. Will Scarlet had told her. If she played this right, she could be handing the pirate over to Gold before sunset. She just had to be careful.

Decision made, Emma loosened her hair to tumble attractively on her shoulders, and undid her bodice by several notches, enough to look as if she might just spill out of it. Then she made across the room toward him like a homing pigeon, leaned down to bring her bosom to within less than six inches of his eyes, and breathed, "What are _you _having tonight, handsome?"

He stared at her, momentarily and completely deprived of the power of speech, mouth hanging open and eyes glazed over. Quite pleased with this effect, Emma took advantage of it to slide into the chair across from him, letting her knee brush tantalizingly against his. She picked up the rum bottle and poured herself a few fingers, then threw it back in one gulp, as he continued to stare at her as if an angel had descended from heaven and then proceeded to transform into a succubus from hell. "Cat got your tongue?"

"I." He shook himself, blinking. "A _very _good evening to you too, love."

"Mmm-hmm." Emma slid in still closer and poured him a second tumbler of rum as well. Still unable to take his eyes off her, he put it down by reflex, some of the golden liquid dribbling down his chin as he missed his mouth. She reached out one finger and daintily caught the droplets, sucking them off, and he appeared to forget how to breathe altogether.

With her mark thus rendered in such an impressionable state, it was extremely easy for Emma to sink her claws in. She tossed the subsequent shots of rum over her shoulder, making sure he drank his, as she reached out and curled her fingers around the cool metal. "I have a confession to make. I want to know how you got the hook. You hear _so _many stories."

"So you know who I am, and you won't even tell me your name? We're just two ships passing in the night, then?"

"Passing closely, I hope."

She continued to caress the hook, as if to give him an idea of what _else _she might be capable of doing with her hands if offered opportunity, and poured him another drink, which he regarded with amusement. "You know, if I didn't know any better, I'd say you were trying to get me drunk, which is usually my tactic."

"What's wrong, Captain?" She reached under the table, stroked his leather-clad thigh. "Can't hold your rum?"

"No, not only can I hold it, but I can carry it right out the door." His face was very close to hers, his eyes startlingly blue in the low light, his breath hot on the bare tops of her breasts, as he tapped her nose with one ringed finger. "So, love. What do you say we set sail? Come back with me for a nightcap, or shall I find someone else?"

No chance of letting him get away now. And she needed to get a good look at his ship, be able to describe it, and if it was still aboard, retrieve the compass. After that, she'd be in prime position to pass the details onto Gold, and prepare to set the final trap. She didn't need Pan's protection at all, if she finished the job, and she got up at once, letting him wrap his arm around her waist as they navigated out of the White Rabbit, into the dark labyrinth of Southwark. She kept a sharp eye on the turns and shortcuts he took, noting that he was clearly not about to run the risk of landing at the West India Docks anymore. If she could stall him until dawn, it would be much harder for him to slip out undetected, or at least give her time to get a message to Gold. Thus as they turned into sight of a decrepit quay, she pretended to stumble. "I – I think I need a rest."

"Oh, no need, no need!" The pirate scooped her off her feet and swung her across his chest. "I've carried rum barrels heavier than you!"

She giggled giddily as he strode with her up the plank of – she hadn't seen it at all at first, but somehow there it was, a fine airship with glowing windows, a black silk zeppelin, and cannons crowding the ports, scuffed mahogany siding and the faint, painted-over Nelson's chequey that signaled this had indeed once been a Royal Navy ship of the line – fifth or sixth rate, Emma guessed from the guns, a small, fast attack frigate instead of one of the massive, fortress-like first rater men-of-war that patrolled both sea and sky. "Behold!" its captain announced, with inebriated delight. "The Rolly Joger!"

"Captain!" One of the crew members, a short stout man in a red cap, goggled at them. "I wasn't expecting you back so soon, we haven't finished the repairs – and are you sure you should be taking a woman aboard now, they have to have spies out looking for – "

Not wanting him to develop this line of thought any further, Emma seized hold of the captain's lapels as he put her down, pulling his face toward her. "I seem to recall that a nightcap was promised," she purred, tossing her hair. "Find one, and I'll be waiting."

Redcap seemed inclined to further objections as Emma picked up her skirts and flounced across the deck, and the captain was detained to talk him out of them – a state of affairs which suited her just fine, as she opened the door and darted into the cabin, using her few precious moments to scour it for anything that looked remotely like a compass. She was thusly occupied when she heard footsteps crossing the deck, and straightened up just in time as he sauntered in, raising an eyebrow at seeing her. "I do hope you haven't changed your mind?"

"No," she murmured, "just got tired of waiting." And dragged him in, opened her mouth, and kissed several sorts of bejesus out of him.

He jerked, his lips hot and insistent against hers, responding at once, tongues and teeth scraping and tasting, good enough that she let herself enjoy it – for just the barest instant – before she got back to business. They rocked on the spot, and then she swung him around and started guiding him toward his bed, where he went more than willingly. Oh good, so he was the kind of man who liked a woman who took charge, at which she was about to do far more than he ever bargained for. She kept kissing him, grasping his collar with one hand as she reached down with the other and removed the derringer from its thigh holster. She pushed him down onto the bed – and then, as he reached for the laces of her bodice with his hook, clearly intending to tear them off, she brought her hand up in a fast, sharp movement, pressing the barrel just above his left ear. "Don't move," she whispered. _"Killian Jones."_

He went very still, understandably somewhat slow to change his appraisal of the situation from "passionately kissing a beautiful woman" to "beautiful woman holding a gun to head." His gaze flickered over her, as if wagering whether he could plunge his hook into her heart before she had time to get the shot off, but seemed to realize that this would in fact end fatally for him. A corner of his mouth turned up in an almost mocking smile. "What's this now, love?"

"You're a clever man, Captain." She straddled him, making sure she kept an eye on the hook, and rolled her hips, just to be sure that he was still distracted. He was indeed, most _greatly_ distracted; she could feel it firm between her legs, and that little side effect just might not subside, if she was clumsy. How terrible of her. "Figure it out."

"Who are you working for?" He lifted his free hand and ran a sensuous finger down her cheek, lingering in the hollow of her breastbone. "You do make quite a delicious pirate. I don't think I've ever seen the like, except for the legend of Miss Bonny. And nor am I Calico Jack Rackham, I assure you. A man who doesn't fight for what he wants, deserves what he gets."

"Who says I'm working for anyone?" Emma gave him a dangerous, sleek little smile. "The compass. I want it."

"The. . . compass?" Jones echoed blankly. "Oh. That. Well, I'm terribly sorry, my darling, but I'm afraid you're too late. I've already sold it."

"I'm going to let you in on a little secret," Emma breathed, bending closer, her loosened hair tumbling in fragrant clouds around his face. "I'm quite good at knowing when someone is _lying _to me. So if you wanted to try that again. . .?"

"Going to torture it out of me?" His lips split in a dark, feral smile that she felt to the back of her stomach – and other places. "Come now, darling, there must be more enjoyable things to do with me, on my back in bed – or would you prefer we changed places?"

"Not a chance." Emma cocked the derringer, in case the particulars of the situation had managed to escape him. She reached down with her other hand and unclicked the hook from its brace, lifted it to her mouth and breathed on it lightly, then tossed it across the room, out of his reach. Carefully, keeping a sharp eye on him for any other weapons he might suddenly produce from about his person (he was most certainly happy to see her, but might yet have a gun in his pocket) she slid backwards off him and ordered him to his feet. He stood facing her, still _en dishabille, _buttons of his shirt undone almost to his stomach (she was not distracted by the sight of his lean, dark-furred chest in the least). Completely untroubled, grinning offensively.

"Well?" she snapped, jerking the gun in illustration. "Hand it over."

Jones shrugged, one dark eyebrow still cocked, then turned away and rummaged in the drawers by the bed, as she tensed, waiting for him to come up with a pistol of his own, but instead he held up a heavy golden compass by the chain. "This compass, you mean?"

"Yes!" She snatched at it, but he jerked it away, still grinning. "I'm warning you. Hand it over, that's all I want, and then – "

"And then?" he repeated. "On my ship, among all my men, you're just going to stroll out, sweetheart? After we went through all sorts of bother to acquire it in the first place?" He sauntered closer, utterly unfazed by the way she trained the gun on the center of his chest, leaning in to press himself against the barrel, sharing, stealing her breath, mouth following hers. "You should have thought this through _just_ a little better."

Emma pulled the gun free and repositioned it between his eyes. "I've thought this through just fine. Now." She reached for the compass, but couldn't quite pull it loose; his grip was unyieldingly strong. "Do I need to remind you of the circumstances?"

"Not in the least." He grinned. "But there's no call for this unpleasantness. You are a beautiful woman, and I. . . well, I consider myself an honorable man, a man with a code. If you wanted to. . ." Somehow, impossibly, he got closer. The – the – what the hell was he doing, she was holding a gun on him and the son of a bitch was brushing her nose with the lightest of kisses! "Say. . . make a bargain. . . I'm sure an accommodation could be reached."

For a stomach-lurching moment, Emma was seriously tempted. More than that, really; it was a deep, visceral _need,_ and that seriously alarmed her. She was no stranger to people attempting to seduce her, not in this line of work, and as well demonstrated with both Will Scarlet and now Killian Jones himself, it was one of her most potent weapons. But she wasn't supposed to – _want _to. Especially not with someone like _him, _what all her trust issues and weaknesses would look like in human form. But he'd gotten under her skin already, her nose full of the scent of him, her lips still tasting like him, and that was unforgivable. She shoved back, reestablishing what space she could between them, and twisted the gun into his temple, hard enough to leave a mark. "Give it," she said, low and very evenly. "Or I shoot."

He blinked, momentarily nonplussed that there could be a woman alive capable of resisting his charms, then bared his teeth at her, in something that was nearly a smile but not quite. "As you wish," he said with a martyred shrug, and opened his fingers, letting the compass drop with a clank to the floor. "I hope you won't regret this, darling."

"I won't," Emma breathed, not daring to take her eyes off him long enough to pick it up. She kicked it behind her with her foot – then lunged, snatched it, and bolted, trying to adopt what she hoped was a giddy enough smile to convince the crew that her visit aboard had been enjoyable – if no doubt somewhat briefer than expected. Then she picked up the pace, vaulted off the side, and broke into a run up the docks, expecting to hear small-arms fire at the least, if not the cannons. But evidently the pirates could not sort themselves out long enough to realize that their captain had been robbed at gunpoint by his attractive potential bedmate, and there was no pursuit. Not that there wouldn't be any at all, but once she'd given this to Gold and gotten a bead on the pirate, it wouldn't be for long.

Extremely pleased with herself, Emma hailed a cab to Kensington Palace, and arrived as the distant bells of the city churches were calling four. But when she pulled the cord for the night butler, it was only the same brown-haired maid as before who finally answered her call, sleepy and tousled, and Emma felt obliquely bad for rousting her out of bed. "I'm sorry," she said, "but this can't wait. Is your employer here?"

"Mr. Gold has been at the Athanaeum all night. He hasn't yet returned." The maid muffled a yawn with her hand. "You may inquire after him there, madame."

"Right," Emma said hurriedly. "I apologize for waking you, Miss – ?"

"Just Belle will suffice," the maid said, with a demure, self-effacing smile. "And it's no matter, I had to wake soon to start about the day. Good luck, madame."

"Thank you," Emma said again, turned back to the hansom which she had told to wait in the event of just such a thing, and blinked hard, focusing her gritty eyes, as they trotted past the lawns of Hyde Park, the dark bulk of the Crystal Palace and the Great Exhibition – closed for the night – rising among the thick trees. She touched the compass in her pocket, thinking that the first part of the job was almost done; the sooner she could collect her money and leave, the better. She was still quite sure that Gold had used her as a mole to find and sack the Night Market, and while there was no way to ask him directly about it without adding herself to the list of casualties, there had to be some method of covering her arse – or theirs, come to think of it. As eventful as the last several hours had been, she'd pushed the thought that the underworld might be permanently crippled out of her mind. She couldn't face that, not yet.

The eastern sky had turned dark grey and the stars were starting to fade by the time the hansom turned into Pall Mall, and drew to a halt at the massive marble Neoclassical edifice of the Athanaeum Club, London's most exclusive establishment for elite gentlemen. While membership was theoretically open to those who had achieved distinction in Science, or Art, or Literature, or any other intellectual accomplishment which old money and a hereditary title could not necessarily purchase, it had recently become more or less the private smoking room for the Royal Society, who controlled its membership lists, its funds, its supernumeraries, and its patrons very closely. There were certainly those in London's non-magical aristocracy who bitterly resented this takeover, all of whom were doubtless plotting their displeasure in any of the dozen other gentlemen's clubs on the Mall, but as always, it was quite difficult to squabble with the sorcerers.

Emma allowed the driver to hand her down, paid him, then went up the steps and summoned the doorkeeper, who was suitably scornful at the idea that he should be expected to admit a _woman _onto the sacred premises, but a pointed drop of the President's name convinced him otherwise in remarkably swift order. Still grumbling, but not aloud, he showed her into the splendid columned foyer with its blown-glass aether lamps and marvelously nude Greek statues, bid her to wait, then returned to conduct her into a more intimate parlor, almost lost in a fug of cigar smoke, a fire crackling merrily in the hearth and Robert Gold sitting at his ease behind a spindly-legged mahogany table, turning something in his hand.

He glanced up as she was escorted nearer. Despite it being almost dawn, he appeared to be barely tired; she doubted he had ever gone to sleep. His pinstriped suit was immaculately pressed, his cravat sharply folded, as he took a lingering drag on his cheroot, then tapped it into a glazed saucer and snuffed it. "Miss Swan," he said. "How delightful."

The butler took his unobtrusive leave, and Emma a seat. "I have what you want."

"Do you." Gold lifted the object in his hand: a round clay orb etched with arcane, cabbalistic symbols, a pupil painted in the middle that made it look uncannily like a staring eye. "But do you know what this is, dearie?"

Emma had seen something like it once or twice in the Market, but even there, such things were not common knowledge. It was safer to feign ignorance. "No."

"Ah. Well. It was sent to me by an. . . associate, in Prague. I have eyes and ears across the Continent, you know, and Prague is one of the few places that can claim any sort of competition with London as a seat of magic. To make a long and dreary story short, he has gathered certain intelligence to suspect the existence of a plot against me. Of which this – " he held up the clay eye – "would form the chief part. Prague's magicians have a specialty in such things."

"Oh?" Emma did her best to keep her expression bland and incurious, even if a sudden foreboding had departed her skull and began to slither down her spine. She wasn't quite sure why exactly he was telling her this, but did have a feeling that her mission was about to become rather more complicated. He wanted her to do something, was certainly not going to let her leave his service even if she could (soon, at any rate) deliver the compass to him, and then soon Killian Jones himself. And this. . . that was a golem's eye, and golems were monstrous giants made of clay and blood, mindless, destructive. It was said that Rabbi Judah Loew, the renowned Jewish sorcerer, had crafted the first one to guard his ghetto, sculpted it from the mud of the banks of the River Vltava. A paper, the _shem, _was placed in the creature's mouth to bring it to life, and its master controlled it through the magical eye. Rabbi Loew had used his only defensively, to protect his people from the attacks of those who wished them ill, but the powerful and ambitious man who might be using one now clearly had no such scruples._ Does he mean to unloose it on London? _The thought gave Emma a chill.

"Who would – who would dare to challenge you?" she asked instead, carefully.

"An excellent question." Gold set down the golem's eye and sipped from his cup of tea instead. "My informant believes that it is a certain individual known as Jafar, an exiled political dissident from the Ottoman Empire. A particularly clever and troublesome man; I've crossed paths with him before, and I don't doubt he hasn't forgotten it. However, he must not have been careful enough, if he let himself be known when he was nosing about Prague for the possibility of a golem. I fully expect to thwart him six ways from Sunday, but if I should require some, shall we say, assistance. . . well then, dearie, you won't be adverse to earning extra, I am sure?"

"Of course not," Emma murmured, doing her best to keep her smile stitched on. "Well, my lord. As I said, I have something for you."

"Do you?" Gold said again. He sat back and folded his hands. "Let's have it."

Emma reached into her satchel and produced the compass – somewhat battered by being dropped, but otherwise intact, and slid it across the table to him. He picked it up, turned it over in his hands, weighed it, and examined the beveled crystal face. There was a very long, very uncomfortable moment of silence. Then he put it down and said, "Do you think you're being funny, Miss Swan?"

She shifted in her chair, suddenly uncertain. "How do you mean?"

"I mean," Gold repeated, looking put out at having to humor her ignorance, "that you would have done me full as much good if you had brought me the rubbish from the quay. This is a fake. Crude. Useless. Not even that convincing of a replica. What have you done with the real one – kept it for yourself, perhaps?"

"I – no!" She was horrified, even as certain events about the night were taking on a new and disturbing cast. Such as why it had been so easy to get away from the pirate ship, and why they hadn't bothered pursuing her. _He tricked me. He knew it was a fake, he let me steal it. _She _had _been holding a gun to the captain's head at the time – she herself might have done the same if she thought she could get away with it – but she was still furious. And with that, she knew that no matter what Gold said, even if he hadn't ordered her to continue hunting down the pirate, she would. Captain Killian Jones had just made it personal.

"I," she said again. "I thought – "

"I know quite well what you _thought_. You disappoint me." Gold disdainfully dropped the compass into the salver alongside the ashes of his cigar. "And you came _so _highly recommended."

"I assure you, I will make this – "

"You'd best hope so, dearie. For your sake." Gold raised a hand, and Emma could feel the butler looming up at her back, clearly there to remove her – in one way or another. He gave a little shrug. "You were at the Night Market earlier this evening, I am sure. And hence you know what I do to those who cross me."


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Blondes. Blonde women. Delightfully dangerous blonde women, blonde women with marvelous bosoms, with green eyes and porcelain skin that he would gladly have explored inch by sensuous inch – not that Killian had anyone particular in mind, of course. It was more of a scientific horror at how many blonde women he might have failed to properly appreciate over the years, having always been a brunette man, himself. All the blondes who wore their golden curls in frothing tumbles down their backs, pretty and pink-cheeked as china shepherdesses, or high and sleek in a chignon, or done up with a lot of ornamented pins that were the bugger to get out in clandestine, lustful haste (not that he'd know a thing about that). Or in a braided crown, or long and loose, pale as cornsilk. Oh yes, he did like those. Pity that he had only five fingers to imagine combing through those thick, soft locks, or running across the bow of the wide, stern mouth, the indent in her chin as if God had left a thumbprint there in fashioning her (or dropping her from heaven, either way). But then she was moving above him, riding into him, she was –

Holding a gun to his head, again, and Killian sighed in aggravation at his imagination's stubborn insistence on accuracy to go and muck up a perfectly good fantasy. He felt an oblique guilt to even be picturing the blonde woman, who was clearly some sort of mercenary on his tail and very likely a catspaw of the Royal Society as well (why would she want the compass otherwise, instead of all the other treasure aboard a pirate ship, which would be of far more interest to a common thief?) instead of Milah – who, he reminded himself, was truly who he wanted and could never have again, thanks to Robert bloody Gold. Very well, that there was a wakeup call.

He still did feel slightly bad about purveying Blondine with a fake, which surprised him – but not enough to do anything about it. The real compass was safely back in the mansion on the Place Vendôme, of course, and Jafar had informed him that the false one had certain interesting properties (in that tone which made Killian suppose it wise not to inquire what exactly they were) and hence he should try quite hard to get it planted in the President's place of residence. So far as that went, Blondine may have made his life much easier. Even if the Night Market _was _still in operation, she couldn't have sold it there; thanks to the bloody newspapers, everyone knew what it was and where it came from. Probably a freelancer, had the luck to run into him, recognize him, and decide to do her worst, sell the thing back for as big a bounty as she could get. Aye, well, good for her, but Gold was not going to be pleased once he discovered the deception, and thus she might not find her reward as satisfying as she thought.

Once more, Killian had to push aside the faint, gnawing guilt. She'd used him, betrayed him – he didn't owe her a damn thing. He'd just got done ridding himself of Scarlet, he didn't need to go acquiring another distraction in the bugger's place. Jafar would certainly not be pleased, and even Killian Jones, who feared very few men and respected even fewer, knew already not to take the prospect of his wrath lightly. But no backing out now. Not a chance.

Right then. Gold. Remembering his conjecture that he would need an extra trick or three up his sleeve before attempting burglary at Kensington Palace, Killian ruminated briefly, then was struck with the realization that it would be extremely beneficial to make a trip to Edinburgh. The Scottish Royal Society had always played second fiddle to their English counterparts, as Scotland tended to do in general, but hence maintained a fierce rivalry with them, and could have no love for Robert Gold, one of their own, selling out and going south to get rich serving the Sassenachs. Besides, as a young man fresh from parochial school in Glasgow, he had arrived in Edinburgh, quickly displayed a prodigious and dazzling talent for magic, and then, after the Scots had taught him everything they knew, used their patronage to get a place reading law and practical sorcery at Oxford, and never looked back or came home again. Surely there were profitable resentments, and dirty secrets, to be excavated there.

Yes, excellent. Decision made, Killian next reckoned that it would not be at all a good idea to fly the _Roger _up there. Apart from the fact that the old girl still needed her repairs finished, it was hard to so much as fart in British skies without the wrong sorts getting, so to speak, wind of it, and he remained leery about the narrowly failed ambush on the Thames. He was quite confident in his ability to avoid capture, but no need to extravagantly tempt fate. He had another route in mind, besides.

After sleeping a few hours and having a quick conference with his crew to apprise them of the plan, Killian got dressed, threw a few essentials into a rucksack, and set out. The nearest waypoint was in Richmond, not _too _far away, thought he couldn't be sure how long it would take for a wagon to arrive. Hopefully not much, if he sped up the process, and once he arrived at the waypoint – a thick, tangled thorn hedge that would, and in fact did, horrify the royal gardeners of Hampton Court, but no matter how industriously they cut, snipped, sheared, and pruned, it always grew back even more exuberantly the very next day, until they finally gave up in exasperation. Once Killian was standing in its formidable shadow, he reached under his shirt, extracted the silver crucifix he always wore – the only relic he had from his mother – and whispered, _"Gralt'a, an Lucht Si__ú__il."_

For long moments, nothing. He waited tensely, peering through the thickets, not sure what he'd do if they decided that his privilege had finally been lost. The Irish Travellers were a fiercely secretive and insular lot, and though his mother had been one, Killian was never sure how long they'd feel a sense of obligation to her son. Roving nomads, rumored to be more than part faerie, they crossed the whole of the British Isles in their brightly painted wagons, following the old ley lines and emerging from hedgerows or standing stones or ancient barrows, wherever the barrier between the mundane and magical worlds was thinnest. Along the way, they made their living with small tricks, selling charms to make the cow's milk sweet or to keep ghoulies from the home, or tinsmithing, or collecting old horses for slaughter, or playing pipes and fiddles at _ceilidhs, _and here and there a confidence-game or spot of honest pickpocketing. Killian wondered sometimes if this was where he'd gotten it, his sense of restless adventure and his talent for thievery – as well as his disdain for authority. He wished he'd known his mother, but Catriona Jones had died giving him birth. After that, Davy was never the same again.

Killian shook his head, chasing off the memories, and was heartily relieved to hear a rustling from deep within. A moment later, a gaily painted yellow wagon emerged, driven by a wizened brown stump of humanity who eyed Killian up and down with patent skepticism, then asked in the Cant, "Aye, so then where'd you be going, me lad?"

"Edinburgh, it would happen," Killian answered in the same language. Since his mother had died before she could teach it to him, he'd had to learn it from scratch, mostly in the three years between his father abandoning him and Liam finding him; he worked as a mudlark on the Thames, picking out lost trinkets and selling them to the Travellers passing through London, among other occupations. He had the crucifix and the knowledge that his mother was one of theirs, so he scraped by well enough. Never forgot it entirely during his years in the Navy, and found it quite useful once he became a pirate. "Can you take me there, _menthroh?"_

The man chewed his pipe. "So far as Derby, by route of Cornwall and Northampton."

"That'll do." Killian climbed onto the running board and braced himself; the first time he'd experienced it, his guts had attempted to turn themselves inside out through his mouth. Sure enough, the driver cracked the whip, the horse stepped forward – there was a sense of immense pressure, the world folding up like a Japanese paper swan, everything in the wrong place – and then they were rolling out of a perfect circle of elms and along a narrow Cornish lane, Tintagel Castle looming formidably on its bluff in the distance. A few years ago, when the demand for Arthuriana had reached one of its periodic fever pitches, Killian had spent plenty of time here, stealing as many of the genuine artifacts as he could get his hands on and finding ways to cleverly forge the rest; he must have sold Excalibur half a dozen times at least, at an ever more comfortable profit. The thought made him grin, wondering if the buyers had ever crossed paths at some posh London soiree. That'd be bloody awkward, no doubt about it.

That was how the rest of the day went. When the Travellers had finished their business, they drove into the elm circle in Cornwall and out past the Eleanor cross in Northampton, leaving Killian's stomach – not entirely recovered from the first go-round – dancing the polka again. While his hosts were occupied, he stopped off at a town-square tavern and got a drink, thus ensuring that he did not notice their subsequent transition to Derby quite as much. This was as far as the present drivers were going, and it took Killian close to an hour before he succeeded in flagging down a wagon headed for Scotland. At last, as a heavy, sodden dusk was falling into the steep hills of the city, the bells of Holyrood Abbey calling the evening prayers, he arrived in Edinburgh, wet and hungry and his arse damn sore from jolting on splintery wooden boards all day. In hopes of repairing all of these tribulations, he set off for the World's End at once.

A cramped, smoky, crowded pub, the place had originally been named for its location at the foot of the Royal Mile, near the medieval city walls that did in fact mark the end of the world for the cultured city-dwellers, but it had long been rumored that there was a door in the back, never opened, that led into the Seelie Court, and it was sworn up and down by reputable men that the Angel Gabriel had guested here, while hunting the rogue Nephilim that Louis the Sun King, during his interminable wars with Britain, had summoned to earth. One of the chief incidents that led to the French distaste for practical magic, if Killian recalled. That and the popular tale that Marie Antoinette had employed a sorcerer to do nothing but produce cakes out of thin air.

He took a seat, and was shortly supplied with food and beverage. Haggis was both quite a bit tastier than you imagined, and the sort of hearty warm meal that was good for this cold, miserable night. As he ate, he glanced around in hopes of spotting someone useful. Scottish magicians, as plain and frugal as the rest of their countrymen, were not nearly as easily distinguished as their English fellows, who tended to go in for all sorts of ridiculous accoutrements and gaudy fashions; bunch of bloody peacocks, they were. In contrast, the Scots favored sober dark broadcloth suits and sensible cravats that made them look like bankers or clerks or very boring great-uncles whose houses smelled of boiled cabbage. No one seemed eager to pop up and announce himself as such, at any rate, and Killian finished supper, paid for a room, and edged up the creaking steps to the garret. Lay down on the narrow bed, and fell fast asleep.

The morning was barely noticeable when it arrived, being just as grey, damp, and dark as before, and Killian donned his top hat before setting out into the fog, huffing and puffing as he climbed the steep street, boots splashing in the mud. Eventually he reached the University of Edinburgh, however, and as his request to visit the Dean of the School of Magic was being processed – he posing as James MacKenzie, the father of a prospective new student – he glanced around at some of the plaques and tintypes on the walls, highlighting notable alumni. One of them caught his eye: damn if it wasn't Archibald Hopper, the very doctor he'd crossed paths with so eventfully, was it – just last week? But that made him wonder if a man who knew so much about magical maladies and cures might be able to procure something, if this expedition fell through. Hopper would not be pleased to see him again, but Blondine wasn't the only person who could hold guns to people's heads, after all. Not that he was thinking about her.

The Dean, when he finally arrived, was effusive and solicitous, but not very helpful. Even when Killian slid a fat golden guinea across the table and asked if perhaps now he remembered more about Robert Gold, he remained blandly unforthcoming. "If your son were to enroll wi' us, Mr. MacKenzie, sure we could see about apprenticeship in the Royal Society, if the boy has a talent, but to discuss such things now. . . it would be quite irregular, d'ye ken?"

_And perish the thought we should be bloody irregular. _Killian was wearing his false hand instead of his hook, which he now deeply regretted insofar as it lost him the opportunity to bury it between the prevaricating bastard's eyeballs. He was _not _spending a guinea to walk out of here with nothing, and while there was always the option of the whiskey route, that would take too long. So he coaxed, cajoled, and finally openly threatened until the Dean's memory abruptly improved, and he let slip that while at school here, Robert Gold had been most interested in the legendary Persian sorceress, Scheherazade, and the possibility of tracking down the artifacts and magic mentioned in her tales – whether it was the treasures of Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves, the herb of immortality sought by Bulukiya, or the djinni of Solomon. Everyone had condescendingly considered this a vain and frivolous pursuit, and kept on doing so right up until Gold, at the tender age of eighteen, found what (or what he claimed, at least) was the lost City of Brass in the Sahara, with its working automatons, mummy-queen, and ancient bottle, supposedly one of a set of three, that when put together would give their master complete command over the very laws of magic themselves. They could bring the dead back to life, change the past, even command anyone to fall in love. Anything was possible. _Anything_.

Upon hearing this, Killian's ears pricked up sharply, remembering what Jafar had said about wanting him to steal a bottle from Gold, that Jafar himself had the other two and needed the third to complete his collection. As casually as possible, he asked whether Gold might have published or presented these findings anywhere, and was given a regretful answer that alas, young Robert had held them closely to the vest – so close, in fact, that he had not even seen fit to supply his old alma mater with a copy. He may have referenced them in his dissertation at Oxford, the dean added, in a faintly scandalized tone at the thought of such things in the hands of Anglicans, but Christ Church, one of the leading schools of magic in Europe, kept its archives sealed. _And good luck even to you getting in there, _was the unspoken implication.

Sensing that he had got all the useful intelligence available without outright torturing the man (maybe sing "God Save the Queen" loudly and off-key over and over, or wipe his arse with the saltire) Killian thanked him for his time, and emerged into the mist and murk, which was now expertly aiming itself down the back of his overcoat. He made a few other visits to proprietors he knew in the city, but while all of them sympathized heartily with his arms of taking down Gold, none of them could offer substantive assistance outside of a clap on the back and a wry, "Watch out ye don't get killed, then."

Killian, discouraged that what he'd thought was going to be an illuminating venture had turned up so many dead ends, finally decided that he would in fact stop off at Oxford and discover if anyone's conviction could be bent one way or another. So he trudged out to Arthur's Seat, the majestic green tor that overlooked the city, and the Traveller waypoint.

Two or three hours later, after a stop at what felt like every godforsaken little town between Edinburgh and the border, jerking in and out of existence like a marionette pulled by a string, Killian arrived somewhere in Yorkshire, as twilight was fast falling. Indeed, it was late enough that most everyone had stopped for the night, and after forty minutes of waiting, he was forced to realize that no more wagons were likely to come through until tomorrow. Which left him stranded, with no apparent place to spend the night except under a bush somewhere, and he didn't like the look of the sky. It was an eerie, bruised purple, the clouds were tall black towers, and the wind whining across the moors sounded like something evil.

Turning up his collar, Killian started to walk. Distant globes of light, deceitful will-o-the-wisps, bobbed on the horizon, but otherwise there was no sign of life in any direction. There was a faint track through the bracken, which he followed, and eventually dipped down, widened into a rutted road, and entered a thick copse of hawthorn trees, their limbs black and skeletal, thrashing in the gale. Killian himself had to walk with his head down, hand clapped to his hat as he crossed a quaint little medieval bridge and continued deeper into the forest, hearing water running somewhere nearby. It sounded deep and fast, and he hoped it wasn't the Strid, the notorious burn that was only a few feet wide and looked like a shallow brook to wade across, but was in fact untold fathoms deep, riddled with caverns and chasms; nobody who fell in ever lived to tell the tale, and often the body was never recovered. Furthermore, it was said to be haunted by a white horse, which if seen was either the omen of impending death or the cause of it. In either case, it was exactly the sort of thing you did not want to meet on the apocryphal dark and stormy night in a deserted country lane, which was presently exactly what this was. That or –

Preoccupied with trying not to think about demonic equines, and the wind now shrieking as loudly as it was, Killian almost didn't hear it. But his instincts chirped at him, and then he threw himself aside into a pile of fallen leaves and mud, just as a big black coach, drawn by four equally large black horses, thundered past, wheels skidding as it veered, and the coachman shouted and cracked the whip and wrestled them to an eventful halt just up the road. "Oy, ya bloody dunderheid!" he bellowed, in a thick Yorkshire accent. "The hell ya were doin' in the middle of the road, now?"

Killian, after brushing himself off and recollecting what modicum of dignity he could, proceeded toward the hulking shadow of the coach. "I do apologize, sir," he said, in his own slightly drawled London accent. "Next time I'll be sure to be left of center, that would help. Or perhaps you not driving like a bat out of hell. That would help too."

The coachman glared at him, and was clearly about to fire back with whatever provincial wit he fondly imagined himself to possess, when the coach door opened. A woman's voice, dark and throaty, demanded, "Why exactly are we stopped, Claude?"

"This bugger here, he stepped outta nowhere – "

The woman made an impatient, irritated noise, and pushed the door wider with one kid-gloved hand, so that Killian could just see her by the light of the lantern swinging from the running board. Milky skin, dark eyes, red lips, luxuriant black hair swept up beneath a hat that must have been some milliner's pride and joy, rustling skirts in violet silk and black lace. Beautiful, but instantly and sharply recognizable as dangerous. "So," she said, studying Killian critically. "What are you doing here?"

"Looking for a place to spend the night, my lady." Killian made her a flourishing bow. He could hear the first heavy raindrops starting to pound through the leaves, and in a few minutes more, this road was going to be turned into a sucking quagmire. "I'm only a poor lost traveler, I swear."

The woman snorted. "Oh, that's likely. Well, you're out of luck, and you'd also best be off my estate, unless you want – "

"Mother, wait." The voice came from behind her, and the coach's second occupant leaned forward – a brown-haired boy, ten or eleven, dressed in a smart school uniform. The sight of him was in fact something of a shock; while the resemblance was not instantaneous or overwhelming, he nonetheless reminded Killian of Bae, who he had taken aboard the _Roger _not long after losing Milah and his hand. He had wanted to use him to find intelligence on his father, but ended up, of all the confounded things, caring deeply for the lad. Offered to adopt him, raise him as his own, but Bae had flung Milah's death in his face, blaming Killian for the loss of his mother, and fled somewhere into the London underworld. _God, Bae, I didn't, I never. . ._

Killian shook his head, once more having to force himself to return to the present. "Mother," the boy was saying entreatingly. "It's late, he doesn't have anywhere to go. We can take him home for just one night, can't we?"

"A strange man in the house with us, some. . . dirty vagrant? Henry, are you quite mad? We've been through this!"

"Please?" Henry pleaded. "I won't say anything about. . . it. . . I promise!"

"And I have also told you many times that you are simply inventing it, there's nothing there. I shall have to send you to an asylum if you keep this up. Is that what you want? Is it?"

The boy – Henry – shrank. "No, Mother. It's not."

"That's my good lad." The woman smiled tenderly at him, then reached to close the coach door – only to find that she couldn't. Whether it was the boy's haunting evocation of Baelfire, or because he didn't want to walk on this road in the storm, or because something struck him as odd about this whole situation, Killian had a firm grip on the handle, and would not let go no matter how much she tugged. Then with a charming smile, he swung himself up and into the coach, seating himself on the green crushed-velvet bench across from them.

"There," he said, with another smile for Henry. "Thank you very much for the generous offer, young master."

Henry looked delighted; his mother, furious. But after she gave Killian the once-over, she evidently saw something that made her change her mind, and flashed him a sleek, predatory smile. "Ah, of course," she said. "It would be quite discourteous to leave you out in the rain. Very well. Claude – " called out the door to the coachman – "let's get on home, please."

Claude – doubtless after a boggled moment that they were actually picking up this tramp – did as ordered, and the woman shut the door as the coach jolted and swayed into motion. "Well?" she asked curtly. "Your name?"

"Liam."

"Liam. . .?"

"Surely that will suffice for now, my lady?"

She snorted again, but for the moment, chose to let it pass. "I am Lady Regina, mistress of Applewood Hall. This is my son, Henry."

Henry solemnly stuck out his hand for a shake, which Killian administered with gentlemanly precision, biting his cheek. It struck him that the boy was desperate for companionship – a feeling he himself was close kin to, and since it cost him nothing and might unearth something of interest, he was kind. "So you'll be in the grammar school here, lad? What are your favorite subjects? Going to make a magician like your mum?"

Lady Regina shot him a very sharp look, and Killian supposed that perhaps he should have been more careful with the fact that he could tell – in his line of work, he'd had to learn to spot them at one glance, or end up dead. Or perhaps he shouldn't. It was a veiled threat that she was not going to be able to do as she liked with him, for whatever reasons had led her to permit him aboard, but in any other case, he would be as charming and considerate as she wished. It had not escaped him that her occupation – vanishingly rare for aristocratic women, as the men in power were not at all keen to teach them anything that could lead to them getting _Ideas – _might be useful in finding something that his ultimately rather pointless venture to Edinburgh had denied him, and he did not intend to be dislodged until he did so. Hence he leaned back, smugly ignoring Lady Regina's glares of disapproval, as Henry happily chattered away about school – he liked History and English, loathed Latin and Mathematics, thought he might want to be a magician but wished he was a knight more, loved the tales of King Arthur and the Round Table. This provided Killian an excellent opportunity to tell him all about the articles he had recovered from Tintagel, Glastonbury, and Avalon, and by the time the coach had turned through a pair of imposing wrought-iron gates, lumbering up the long dark drive to the manor reclining regally at the crest of the hill, Henry had plainly already decided that they were the best of friends. _Has he no others? Where is his father? _Despite himself, Killian could not help but feeling vaguely miffed on the boy's behalf. Not that he was going to do anything stupid about it, of course.

The coach rumbled under the Grecian-columned portico, and the footman stepped from the back to open the door and hand Lady Regina out. Before he could do likewise for Henry, however, Killian stepped out first and swung the boy in his arms, as Henry giggled in delight. As the rain pounded down, dimly visible in eerie grey sheets just outside the lantern light, the three of them ascended the broad stone steps as the footman bowed and held open the door, and Claude the coachman drove away to unhitch and put up the horses. Wondering what he was about to find, Killian stepped inside.

It was a spacious, sumptuously furnished country estate, with half-timbered Tudor walls, plaster frescoes, dark mahogany wainscoting, blown-glass lamps, claw-footed chairs and chaises upholstered in striped silk, a grand staircase that led away into the gloom of upstairs, and framed oil portraits and rich tapestries hung on the walls. Another servant took their wet wraps, said, "We've kept supper hot, m'lady," and bowed them through into the dining room at the back, places set for two. On seeing Killian, they hastened to add a third, at which Lady Regina's nostrils flared but she made no comment. So they sat and were served, the adults taking wine and Henry given cider, and for several minutes there was nothing but the well-mannered clink of silver, china, and crystal. Then Henry gulped his mouthful of veal and said to Killian, "Would you like to see my drawings?"

"Henry!" His mother scowled. "You're not to go excusing yourself in the middle of supper to gallivant around and fetch those filthy papers down here."

"I'd love to see them, lad," Killian assured him. "After dinner, though. Wouldn't want to get you in trouble."

Once the meal was finished, therefore, and they had retired to the drawing room, Henry bolted off before Lady Regina could object, and scuttled back with a sheath of smudged charcoal sketches, all of which he eagerly spread out for Killian's approval. It gave him a pang; Milah had liked to draw too, but he thumbed through them as Henry hovered, hungry for his approval. They appeared to be some sort of whimsical pieces, from his books of fairytales perhaps: a princess in a glass coffin, a prince on a horse, a girl in a red hood, and an imperious evil queen with a magic mirror, who looked rather markedly like Lady Regina. "These are lovely, lad," Killian said diplomatically; nobody was going to put them in the Louvre any time soon, but he _was _only eleven. "Where'd you get the ideas?"

"I. . ." Henry shifted. Apparently feeling his mother's dark gaze boring into the back of his head, he said weakly, "I made them all up. None of it's real, obviously."

Lady Regina eyed them a moment longer, then abruptly got to her feet. "Pardon me, please. I have to go see to something. Thank you." And with that, though neither of the boys had actually said anything, she swept out.

As soon as he was quite sure she was gone, Killian cocked an eyebrow. "So your mum. . .. she's a piece of work, isn't she?"

"She. . . she's not actually my real mother." Henry twisted his hands in his lap, as if afraid to get caught speaking heresy. "My real mother was young and in prison when she had me, so she found Lady Regina to raise me. But Emma – that's my real mother – pays her a lot every month to do it, and this is where the money goes. Making the house look nice. Sometimes I feel like. . ." His voice dropped, became small. "Sometimes I feel like I don't matter very much."

"I'm sure she loves you, lad," Killian said automatically, even though he himself had drawn something of the same conclusions. "What does your real mum do, then, that brings in so much money, and if so, why can't she just bring you home with her?"

Henry flushed. "She – can't. She's a. . . a bounty hunter, in London. She says that she runs in a lot of dangerous circles, she's gone all the time, she wouldn't be able to take care of me or ensure my safety. She visits once a year or so, usually on my Easter holidays, but I don't think that even if she wanted to, she could get me out of here. Once I climbed through the bedroom window to escape, but the trees came to life and wrapped me up in their branches and. . ."

"Does she hurt you?" Killian asked, with academic interest. "Lady Regina?"

"No!" Henry looked startled. "I have everything I want. She just. . . won't let me go. And ever since the drawings, she's been telling everyone that I'm crazy, but I. . . I'm not."

"Ah." Killian glanced them over with renewed interest. "And what are they, then?"

"They're real," Henry said in a rush. "They're all real. Mother has a vault, it's where she's keeping them. They're all. . . asleep, somehow. Except Ruby – " he nodded at the girl in the red cloak – "she must have escaped, because she's not there anymore. But it's dangerous, because she doesn't know who she is. None of them do. And I think. . ." He lowered his voice and shifted closer, speaking low and rapidly. "I think my real mother, Emma, she's the one that can break the spell and wake them all up and set them free. But I don't think Mother knows – she can't, or she would have. . . done something by now. So I want Emma to come visit, but I'm scared every time that Mother will work out who she is, and. . ."

"Ah." While indeed a fantastical tale, it was far from the strangest thing Killian had ever heard, and combined with his own observations that Lady Regina was both magical and dangerous, he saw no immediate reason why it shouldn't be true. "So this mother of yours, lad. I'm in London quite often, know a good few sorts in the underworld. What's she look like, where can I find her? Maybe I can try to pass a message to her." It always paid to periodically grease palms with useful intelligence, as it might save his skin one day, and increase his chances of getting the same in return. The whole affair with Jafar had come about as the result of one such transaction.

"Her name's Emma, like I said." Henry looked at him gratefully. "Emma Swan. She's blonde and has green eyes, she's tough and doesn't take nonsense. She doesn't tell me much about her work, she says it's to protect me, but she hunts down people that other people want. Mostly in London, but if her clients need to send her somewhere, she goes there."

At that, Killian felt a bolt of lightning go down his spine. It was not necessarily the case, there could be others corresponding to the description, but it made him think instantly and completely of Blondine. _Emma Swan, is it? _Would that, by chance, be the same as the Black Swan, a hunter that most of the underworld knew about by reputation, and did not want to cross paths with, despite her being a woman. He had always thought that quite silly himself, as some of the strongest and bravest and smartest people he had ever known were women. He genuinely liked them for more than just the obvious, and saw no reason to degrade or qualify the Black Swan's skills based on her sex. Especially if she was who he now thought she was. _She bested me, and that never bloody happens._

Henry, seeing the look on his face, opened his mouth to ask another question, but at that precise moment Lady Regina returned, and they both shut up like clams. "It's rather late, Henry," she said, gazing pointedly at the stately grandfather clock in the corner. "Shouldn't you be getting onto bed?"

"Yes, Mother," Henry said with a sigh, getting to his feet, dutifully pecking the powdered cheek she presented, and then, with one more lingering glance at Killian, excused himself into the hall. Lady Regina waited until his footsteps had faded, then took a bottle and two small crystal goblets from the cupboard, poured them each an aperitif, handed Killian's to him, then seated herself on the davenport. There they sat, sipping daintily and staring at each other, until she finally spoke.

"Well," she said, all but the barest traces of courtesy gone from her voice. "What are you doing here, Captain?"

Killian was startled that she knew who he was, and likely had known it all along, but then, they were both testing each other, taking each other out at the knees, and she _was _a sorceress, he should have seen it coming. "Returning from Edinburgh, my lady," he said smoothly. "I was stranded here at nightfall, and then nearly run over by your coach. I'm sure you recall."

Lady Regina pursed her lips. "And what were you doing in Edinburgh?"

"I'm none so sure that's your business." He smirked at her.

"And I rather think it is, seeing as no one knows you're here." She made a small motion with her hand, barely perceptible, that nonetheless conveyed a tangible menace. "And it would be sad for Henry. He seems to have become quite fond of you."

_Aye, indeed, if it's true what he's telling me. _It struck Killian that he could always play nice, give her what she wanted, then steal Henry away – the boy would be thrilled – and hold him hostage for advantages from both his mothers. Yet the thought filled him with a certain distaste, and he was likely to end up as one of her enchanted, eternally sleeping captives down in her vault. So he said, very interested indeed to observe her potential reaction, "Looking for a way to hurt Gold, of course."

She couldn't quite disguise her expression: recognition, revulsion, rage, revelation, more or less in that order. "Gold? _Robert _Gold?"

"Aye, who else. Why? You know him?"

"Oh yes," Regina snapped. "He was the one who taught me most of my magic, claimed I was one of the most gifted students he'd ever had – then one day, abruptly stopped, said that I was a woman and would never be in the Royal Society or Parliament and therefore of no imaginable use to him, and he preferred not to waste his time on me any longer. So he threw me out, but I was determined to finish. I applied to both Oxford and Cambridge, and got letters back patronizingly enquiring whether I was quite clear on the fact that they did not admit 'girls and young Ladies' – even though I had presented samples of my practical work and theoretical essays that would have placed me top of the Norrington Table. So I had to study bit by bit, stealing books, doing experiments, fishing a copy of an old Society exam out of the rubbish tip and taking it for myself. So yes. Yes, I know Robert bloody Gold."

Killian raised an eyebrow; it was clear that not only did she do so, her grudge against him had not subsided with time either. _Excellent. _Seeing that this might prove fruitful, he prodded further, bit by bit revealing more of his own errand, until he finally asked straight out, "So, do you think you could get me into Kensington Palace?"

Regina considered him over the rim of her glass. "Maybe."

"I'd be quite sure to pay you well."

"Money?" She scoffed. "Oh, I have plenty of that now. No need for more. No, Captain, all I will require in return is your promise not to interfere with the affairs of myself and my son, ever again. It's unkind, you know. Telling him all these fanciful tales, distracting him from his studies, that sort of thing. I would hate for him to get attached to you – you see the sense in that, surely? And he can be a. . . disturbed child, what with these inventions of his. I don't want him set off."

_Aye, one of you is disturbed, and it bloody well isn't the lad. _But Killian was years past requiring any sort of morality or standards in his business partners, and that was all this was. Another voice in his head reminded him that considering his indenture to Jafar, he should be careful of getting into bed with another dangerous magician so soon – but this was a chance, and he had to take it, for Milah's sake, for Liam's, the only people he truly loved. "Of course I promise."

Regina eyed him a moment longer, then smiled. "Very good. I'm glad to see you are in fact a sensible man – all the stories about you, one can never be sure. I shall require a fortnight to do some research and determine what the best method would be, and shall be in contact with you when I have worked it out. In the meantime, you should return to London however you left it – which would be what, by the way?"

"Oh, I know a few things." He was not about to let her in on the Traveller network. "Though if that should fail, you have a way as well, surely?"

"I have an old wardrobe in the back of the house," Regina said, "but it's not always reliable – the last time someone went in, they came out babbling of a world where animals talked and lampposts grew like trees, and were shocked that only a few hours had passed, rather than the months they thought it should have been. You'll do better with yours, Captain."

_Or she doesn't want me seeing more of her secrets. _Nonetheless, Killian gracefully acquiesced, and requested that since his way would not be operable until the morning, that she would do the small kindness of putting him up for the night. Once more, Regina looked suspicious, but finally consented to summon a servant who showed him into the dim and gloomy upstairs (Killian could not but suspect mad women shut in attics, such as in that novel, _Jane Eyre, _by Currer Bell) and to a room that he half expected to have pickled human heads floating in glass jars. But there was neither, and it was in fact perfectly suitable, if somewhat cold and musty. Keeping his hook and pistol well in reach, he crawled under the heavy counterpane and fell asleep.

The rain and wind had more or less stopped when he awoke, though the look of the sky promised a dramatic resumption at any moment, and he did not care to waste time. So he bid a pointedly cordial farewell to the lady of the house, and then Henry wanted, of all the silly but oddly sweet things, to give him a hug. So Killian swept the boy off his feet and gave him a proper one (just to annoy Regina, that was it) and had to inform himself yet again that he was an idiot when he found himself reluctant to put him down. To disguise it, he gave Henry's hair a careless ruffle, said to Regina that they were sure to be in touch, and made his departure.

The road was badly washed out and rutted, swimming in mud, and it took Killian well over an unpleasant hour to arrive back at the Traveller waypoint. But at last he did, secured passage so far as Norfolk, and from there made his way back to London, arriving in the late afternoon. He was just attempting to think of a suitable place to find some supper, or perhaps whether the Night Market had sprung back into existence, when he passed a newsie hawking the evening _Times, _and stopped dead in his tracks.

His erstwhile associate's face stared at him, under a bold black headline proclaiming that the fiend of the Exhibition had been captured, and would soon face the justice he deserved. Having bought the paper and skimmed it, Killian further learned that Archibald Hopper, a noted physician on Harley Street, had been taken in as well, for questioning on suspected subversive activities. Someone must have seen one or both of them after he'd left the place, put pieces together, and reported it to the Metropolitan Police, who swooped in and struck gold. And that left Killian with an increasingly horrible realization.

_Bloody hell. I'm going to have to get him out of there, aren't I? _A prisoner of Will Scarlet's importance would be held in the Tower, where they'd likely thrown Hopper as well, and trying to break in was the only thing more foolish than trying to break out. But he had to. Not out of any personal concern for Scarlet's fate, but because otherwise the bugger would start singing like a canary the instant he realized his position. If he provided intelligence that led the Empire to capturing its most hated enemy, Captain Hook, he himself would be granted clemency in return, and thus could save himself from the gallows at Tyburn by telling them everything he knew. And he'd have every reason to do it, seeing as Killian had blithely left him behind with nary a backwards glance; he couldn't feel any especial loyalty to the pirates anymore. He might hold out for a while just for the principle of the thing, but he'd choose his moment for maximum impact. And then the jig was bloody well up.

Killian groaned to himself, with feeling. He patently did not want to further fritter his time away by breaking Will sodding Scarlet out of jail, especially the damned _Tower, _but he had no other choice if he planned on living long enough to do anything else. He'd have to make a discreet excursion to Hopper's office, see if he could deduce who exactly had taken them and by what method, how much of a struggle there had been, if anything useful had been left behind, and so forth. Therefore, still mumbling, he set off.

It was full dark by the time he arrived on Harley Street, but as he bent to pick the lock – with the utmost caution in case the Met had set up a trap in hopes of this very event – he discovered to his disquiet that it was already picked, and quite deftly too. For a moment he hesitated, thinking that it might be advisable to make a judicious retreat, but to hell with it. He was Captain Hook, he'd once (literally) single-handedly taken on six men and beat them all, and he was in a fucking hurry. So, reaching for the hilt of his sword just in case, he advanced into the dark foyer, and crept toward Archie's office –

Whereupon, in a certain neat irony considering that he himself had done this to the good doctor last time, he walked directly into the barrel of a gun.

"_You." _At the sound of the voice, he experienced a further shock; slap his arse and paint him purple if it wasn't bloody Blondine – or that was, he had a very strong feeling, Emma Swan. "What are _you _doing here?"

"That any way to greet me, darling?" He strove for casual mockery. "Always pointing things in my face? If you want me to point something back at you, you need only ask."

Emma was not amused. "Oh, you think you're quite something, don't you? Well, I've met thousands of men like you, and let me inform you: you're not. After you gave me the false compass, you must have – "

"Ah. That. That was. . . regrettable." He gagged as she twisted the barrel of the gun into his throat nearly hard enough to core his Adam's apple. "Easy there, easy. You might damage my face, or something else you'd miss."

She growled, but consented to ease the pressure a bare fraction. "I want an answer. Why are you here?"

"For you to take your frustrations out on, of course. Why are you?"

She hesitated, and in that moment, it hit him that it was for the exact same reason he was. "Hopper," he said, with complete certainty. "He informs for you, doesn't he? Or does some other sort of work, but either way, you'd rather not have him and what he knows in the hands of Her Majesty's Government. Or you think they might kill him, and that would be inconvenient."

"Maybe," Emma whispered savagely. "But you're _my _prisoner now. And what exactly is stopping me from shooting you and leaving you here, then getting you to be taken off with him?"

The retort flashed to Killian's lips before he could stop himself or think better of it. "Because if you do, you'll never know what I know about your son."

She went white to the lips. _"What?"_

"Your son. Henry? Charming boy, about eleven? Lives in Yorkshire with a rather terrifying beldam, Lady Regina? Any of that sound familiar?"

"How do you know about that?" Her green eyes flashed like a lioness. "I swear, if you touched him, if you laid a _finger _on him – "

"Relax, lass. I didn't do a thing to him. Found him rather winsome, really. All fortuitously coincidental, our meeting. But you'll not want to kill me, if you have an interest in what I learned. Then maybe we can discuss our interest in retrieving our. . . mutual friends, eh?"

Emma's eyes continued to burn at him. He had the distinct sense that if she had her druthers, she would put a bullet through his head and not lose a wink of sleep tonight, but she was too trapped by his mention of Henry to take the risk. She surveyed him up and down, and then at long last, took the gun away and holstered it with an ominous clunk.

"Fine," she said, in a low, hard voice. "Talk."


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

There were any number of places that Emma Swan had expected to pass her evening, after her emancipation from the Athanaeum Club that morning with an ultimatum: find Captain Killian Jones, or at least some useful relic of him, by Michaelmas (three days away) or else be put in considerable and considerably unpleasant straits. Somehow she had not imagined any of them as the drawing room of Dr. Hopper's empty house, sitting across from her nemesis while they enjoyed a deceptively cordial glass of sherry, both of their pistols within easy reach on the side tables and the flickering gaslights casting shadows. Emma was pushing her feet against the floor to avoid sliding off the slippery mohair settle, as she had no intention of performing such an undignified maneuver in front of him, but it was difficult to concentrate both on not falling off the couch and maintaining the proper demeanor of forbidding, aloof reserve. She wished she'd had the presence of mind to take the brocaded armchair, but he, apparently two steps ahead of her again, had claimed it first. _Son of a bitch. _But until she found out what he was hiding about Henry, and about Archie's arrest, she wasn't letting him walk out of here.

"So," she said at last, when she judged he might have downed enough sherry to become conversational. "What do you know about my – my son?"

The pirate shrugged. "As I said, not a great deal. Lives in Yorkshire, with a rather – assertive, shall we say? – and most aristocratic Lady Regina. Goes to school there, enjoys History and English. And has a great deal of drawings depicting certain people, who he says are all asleep, enchanted, in a certain vault. And moreover, that you're the one who can wake them up."

"Very funny."

"I'm not joking, love."

'Then you'd better hope the real story is even more ridiculous, because I am_ no _savior of any sort, believe me." She leaned back again, uncomfortably aware that this position, while helpful for keeping her on the couch, thrust her bosom out for his clearly appreciative gaze, and she angrily switched her cloak over it. "How did you find out he was my son?"

"He mentioned his real mother was a blonde-haired bounty hunter in London, and I, having encountered someone of similar description on rather _intimate _terms quite recently – " he smirked at her again – "put two and two together."

"Why were you in Yorkshire?"

"None of your sodding business, darling." He kept grinning. "Unless you're feeling up to telling me on whose behalf you held a gun to my head, upon our last acquaintance?"

Emma cast a significant glance at the weapon in question, as if to suggest that she could very easily do so again if he failed to be cooperative. But he shifted easily with her, mirroring her position, legs spread in a distracting fashion as his good hand drifted to his own revolver. Both of them were instants from picking them up and pointing them at each other, at which the gilded wallpaper in the drawing room would certainly suffer damage, even if their persons did not. Loathingly, she made herself pull back, and he did the same, still matching her inch for inch, as if they were even breathing in time. It was strange, and unwelcome, to encounter such an unexpected synergy with the outlaw she'd been sent to track and capture. Out of nowhere she found herself wondering if Henry had liked him, but that was a ludicrously unhelpful speculation. She didn't want Killian _(Hook!) _anywhere near him.

"Well," Jones said, when the silence had stretched to breaking. "While it is not at all to my liking, I regrettably have to spring my accomplice, Will Scarlet, from the Royal Society's grasp. And unless I much miss my guess, you'd prefer to get Archibald Hopper out of there as well. It would be quite complicated for you if you didn't, as well as a detriment to your future work. So, darling, what say we put aside our differences, just long enough? The two of us ought to be able to work out a plan, though it would be useful if we had some tools. What happened to the Night Market?"

Emma shifted uncomfortably. "It was. . . ambushed. A. . . few nights ago." She'd almost said _the night we met, _and that would have given him ideas, of which he seemed to have too many anyway. "I think the Royal Society had a mole, or. . got access somehow, and they stormed the place, burned the stalls and took whatever they could get their hands on. I don't know how many people escaped. I was lucky."

He gave her a sharp look. "You were _there?"_

"Yes," Emma said, unsettled by the expression on his face – almost as if he felt a certain proprietary concern for her well-being, which obviously couldn't be further from the truth. He was trying to put her off her guard again, and _that _wasn't happening. "I got out and made my way to the White Rabbit, where I. . . crossed paths with you."

"And a very enjoyable crossing it was, love, at least until the gun showed up." He shrugged. "Well, that is troublesome news and no mistake. The Royal Society's been trying for years to get their mitts on the Night Market. How could they do it now? Is a member of the underworld working for them? I could imagine that if that was so, and the dispossessed discovered their identity, that person would be in a great deal of danger."

"I don't know who." Emma managed to keep her face straight and cool.

He shrugged again. "Pity. Whoever it was might want protection. Which I can offer, of a sort."

_Does he suspect me? _It was impossible to say. Even worse, she was not entirely sure that she could discard his offer out of hand. She already had a distinct feeling that protecting her from the underworld would be the last thing on Gold's mind; he would find it very amusing to have her complete her work for him and then throw her to the (possibly literal) wolves, knowing that they would tear her apart on their own and spare him the trouble of dirtying his hands with it. _No. I am not making deals with the Empire's most wanted criminal. _Even if she had to push away the distressing feeling that she was already in too deep with no way out. Even if he was right, she _did _have to get Archie out of the Tower or wherever they'd sent him, and her only current way of doing that was sitting across from her, legs still sprawled apart. _What are the odds that I could just go in there and ask politely? _She had no interest in getting Will Scarlet out. Only –

"Oh, and," said Killian Jones, who was apparently reading her thoughts with distressing ease. "Scarlet. I have a hunch that you may have come across him hiding here, since Hopper is an informant of yours. In which case, surely you realize that he is in the unique position of being able to turn _both _of us into the Royal Society. And surely you wish to escape their attention. . . unless, say, _you _were the one working for them, the one that all the London underworld would like to get their hands on?" His eyes gleamed at her. Either he knew for certain, or was bluffing to try and trick her into revealing herself, and damn him, it was almost working. "Wonder who'd pay well to know that?"

Emma's hand clenched around her glass of sherry, almost shattering the fine crystal. "The last time I saw Will Scarlet," she said coolly, "I did not get the impression he would be delighted to see you again. From what I gathered, you hung him out to dry and betrayed him for your personal benefit, exactly what I'd expect from someone like you."

She thought the pirate might have flinched. A moment later, however, he was in command of himself as usual. "The affairs of myself and my crew are none of your concern, darling, though I'm sure you've had such an impeccable life as to feel comfortable passing judgment on mine. But leaving Scarlet behind was a matter of business, as getting him out will be. And hence, I assure you – "

"And what? You're just going to let him go on his merry way again?" Emma gave Hook a malicious little smile. "I can assure _you _that he doesn't see it as a matter of business. Seemed to take it rather personally. That was why he was so eager to tell me what he knew."

_That _got his attention, she was pleased to see. All at once, he was leaning forward, on the edge of his seat, the teasing and taunting on his face replaced by a dark, angry intensity. _"What did he bloody tell you?"_

"Me to know. You to find out." Emma shrugged. She was pleased that she had finally been able to pull one over on him, as he had seemed disconcertingly far ahead of her to date, and she wasn't used to being outwitted. Didn't like it, either. "At any rate, this isn't negotiable. I'm turning you in, and then I don't have to worry about anything you're going to do, to me _or _my son."

"And how'd that work out for you last time, lass?" His hand flitted casually back toward his gun, and his hook, resting on the side table, oh-so-accidentally gouged a deep slash into Archie's prized teakwood. "You think they're going to let Hopper go? _Or _you?"

"Yes," Emma said stubbornly.

"Come on, love. You know them better than that."

"I am _not _risking my future – my _son's _future – to break into the damn Tower of London and get out a pair of – a pair of – " Emma floundered. Aggravating as it was, Jones had a point that she didn't want to condemn Archie to die for her, and he did know more than enough to throw a permanent wrench into her future bounty-hunting if he disclosed it (as he could not be blamed for doing, if the alternative was torture). Nor did she truly think the Royal Society was going to let him go. But that also meant springing Will Scarlet as well, and collaborating with Jones, and risking Gold's wrath to an even more infernal degree –

She sat motionless for a long moment, irresolute. Her loyalty was to the underworld, or what remained of it, even if it wasn't likely to return the favor. She'd had less savory bedfellows than this, plenty of them. There had to be a way to get Archie out, then alert the authorities about Jones and Scarlet's whereabouts. And even if she felt a certain amount of guilt at turning in some of her own crowd to _them_. . . even though either way, she was going to walk out of this with the undying enmity of either the Royal Society or the underworld. . .

"Fine," Emma spat. "It's a bargain."

The pirate raised a dark eyebrow. "Splendid."

* * *

The first order of business was for Emma to cross the living room, roll up the silver cage, calculate furiously in her head as to whether the full moon was sufficiently passed that this was only moderately insane and not full-on suicide, and ignore Jones' questions as they traipsed down the dark stairs into the cellar. She held a lantern in front of her, not willing to admit that she was grateful for his solid presence at her back, as they took the twists and turns and finally stepped out into the priest's hole. "Ruby?" she whispered. "Ruby? Are you there?"

"Ruby?" Jones frowned. "Who does that – "

He was cut off as a pair of yellow eyes gleamed in the darkness just beyond the circle of lantern light, and the child of the moon, looking distinctly worse for wear, stepped into it – in her human form at least, thank heavens for small mercies. She looked at them questioningly, but didn't get time to say anything before Jones shifted his weight, fast as a snake, and shoved Emma behind him, reaching for his sword. "Bloody hell, that's a werewolf!"

"I _know, _you cretin," Emma snapped, annoyed by his instinctive protectiveness – and not willing to admit, surprised and furtherly taken aback as well. This one was dangerous, and not just for being the Empire's most wanted criminal. "That's step one of our plan. You know the Royal Society and the Met have werewolves. Ruby – if she agrees – is going to help us with that."

"Emma?" Ruby shivered, pulling her tattered cloak tighter. "Where's Dr. Hopper? I heard shouting above, people in the house – I would have come up, but the silver grate – "

"It's all right." Emma did her best to sound reassuring. "He's just. . . been detained. We could use your assistance at getting him out."

The young woman looked nervous, but not terrified. "What do I have to do?"

"We're going to the. . ." Emma paused, but it would not make the prospect any less daunting. "The Tower. I'm a bounty hunter bringing in a pair of prisoners for the Royal Society. That will be you two. Then I'll cause a distraction, and in the chaos, the two of you will get loose. Ruby, if you can turn into a wolf, that would be useful. Captain, you find your accomplice and Archie, and break them out. Then, as I assume you have plenty of practice doing, get out of there."

"And what?" Jones asked, frowning. "Leave you behind?"

"You're a pirate, I thought that was in the Code. I'm certainly not trusting my safety to _you._ If we get separated, I'll meet you by the St. Paul's tunnel. You too, Ruby. Got it?"

Emma glanced around at her troops, wondering how on earth she had ended up in apparent command of this mission, but feeling better now that she had committed herself to it. And if Jones _didn't _get out, so much more useful for her. It wasn't a thing to her, not in the least, if he should march into the Society's grip and finally not be clever enough to walk free.

Not in the least. Besides, they were wasting time.

"Come on," Emma said, taking a deep, steadying breath. "Let's get this over with."

* * *

An hour and sundry later, as the gibbous moon was paving pearlescent silver over the dark spires of London, then and odd vanishing among the clouds like a drowned king's banners, she was poling a skiff up toward the black, spectral teeth of the Traitor's Gate that rose from the River Thames, the entrance by which so many, famed and obscure alike, had gone through and never returned. They would have to take extreme care, not only for breaking _into _the Empire's most feared prison, but because the ravens of the Tower grounds, the ones who must be there in perpetuity or else the kingdom would fall, were well-known as spies and lookouts, and any of them, seeing something at the wrong time, could blow the whole flimsy plan to hell. Her heart was beating hard under her chest as she delicately maneuvered in the silty shallows, Jones and Ruby cloaked and huddled in the front of the boat with their hands tied just tightly enough for show. Then, when she was sure it wouldn't shake, she raised her voice. "Ho!"

The light on the gate flared, and a pair of Yeomen Warders leaned over. "Who bides?"

"The Black Swan. The Royal Society is expecting me. I have who they're looking for."

The Beefeaters exchanged a confused glance, as if thinking that ordinarily prisoners would be registered at some other location and _then _transported to durance vile in the Tower, but apparently Gold _had _been considerate enough to notify them that he had someone on the trail of Killian Jones, and in which case, the trial and any other legal niceties could safely be assumed suspended. There was a mutter of talk, while Emma waited tensely, and then at last, the gate began to creak and rumble open. She poled forward as confidently as she could, docked the boat, then reached out to grab the pirate and the wolf girl by the wrists, jerking them out. "Let's get moving. This is the end of the line for you, you bastards!"

She thought she heard Jones make some muttered comment under his breath; she was grateful not to know what. The Beefeaters were hurrying down to meet them, and then, just as Emma was wondering if she should feign a swoon or if that was altogether too obvious, Jones ripped at the rope like a chained lion, kicking her backwards hard enough that she lost her grasp, stumbled down the steps, and almost pitched headlong into the dark river. Then he threw the rope as Ruby ducked beneath it, and then as Emma was shouting at them in perfectly real panic and drawing her gun, they exploded in opposite directions. Jones veered away from the oncoming guards and toward the White Tower, the one built by William the Conqueror that lay directly in the center of the walls and grounds. Ruby ran still faster, and Emma saw her shadow stretching out, twisting, distorting. The next instant, a mammoth grey wolf hit the ground, snarling, and the Beefeaters shouted in horror, unslinging muskets and blunderbusses. Emma threw herself flat, rolling. _That proved how smart I was to trust him_. Though why he would wait until they were _inside _the Tower to try a great escape, rather than the instant they stepped out of Archie's office –

She sprang to her feet and fired a shot wide over the wolf's head, thinking that they had damned well better be careful. The City of London's entire gunpowder stocks were stored here, as well as a significant quantity of aether, and if that went up, the Great Fire of 1666 would look like a pleasant little hearthside roast in comparison. It was generally presumed that Popish agents from the Vatican had set that blaze; for all the Church fulminated against the use of magic, it was said that no one had ever met a sorcerer from the Opus Dei and lived to tell the tale. The Holy Grail and the Templars' fortune were just a few of the treasures rumored to be kept in their archives, the Philosopher's Stone itself, all manner of the weird and wild and arcane. But Emma's concern was not with historical miscellanea so much as it was with not getting them all (or at least her) blown to possibly literal kingdom come before the night was over. She reached for her other pistol and fired an equally wide shot at Jones – felt a brief fear that she'd actually hit him and was horrendously vexed with herself – as the Beefeaters scattered, bellowing in outraged and righteous pursuit. In the total melee, nobody had the least thought to spare for Emma.

_I could get out of here. Now. _Though she should stay long enough to put in at least a cursory effort at recapturing the escapees, otherwise it would look exceedingly suspicious indeed. Or find where Archie was, or anything whatsoever. So she hitched up her muddy skirts and waded in, checking her available weaponry. The last thing she wanted was to be caught in the middle of this with an empty gun, even if it could still be employed with moderate effectiveness to hit someone over the head. Just long enough. Not much. Just long enough, and then she was gone.

Emma plunged into the fray without a second glance, and hence did not see, in the least, the whirr of wings that circled above her, watching, _watching, _and waiting to strike.

* * *

Will Scarlet was stuck in a small dark hellhole – by smell, shape, and general malodorous air of the long and noble legacy of all those who had shat their unmentionables in terror, he was of the professional opinion that it used to be a privy – and he had been stuck here for what was, by anyone's estimation, far too bloody long. He could keep distant track of time by the bells that sounded to change the watches, but he hadn't seen a scrap of daylight, so it was impossible to tell if they were for the night or morning rounds. He was chained so he could neither sit nor stand comfortably, and he'd had nothing to eat but a few scraps of moldy bread since they'd chucked him in here, rude as you please. At first he had amused himself by mentally composing outraged letters to the Editor of the _Times, _complaining about the barbaric and primitive customs of Her Majesty's modern Empire, but even that quickly lost its savor. He knew how the bastards worked. They'd keep him in here another week or so until he turned into a bloody nutter, then haul him out in the full sun, see if he might be interested in talking, and make it worse than solitude and starvation if he refused. Not that he was going to. Had no damn intention of bein' a bloody martyr, nor taking Jones' well-deserved fall.

Will shifted his position with an aggravated sigh, thinking bitterly that he really should have booked out of Hopper's house the instant the captain had left him there. Even if Elizabeth Turner's company had been most diverting, someone somewhere must have seen or worked out that he was hiding there – one of the doctor's patients, perhaps – and promptly hastened to do their patriotic duty, culminating in far too many peelers for anybody's good breaking down the attic door and dragging him down the steps to the paddy-wagon. After the tersest of all imaginable preliminaries, confirming that he was indeed the one they were looking for, they had transported him here and inserted him into his current predicament. Bit of a bugger as predicaments went, really. He'd thought of shouting for the Beefeaters until they got off their arses and came to investigate the noise, but the walls were a foot thick, and his best efforts only made him hoarse. With only a piddling amount of brackish river water to drink, this was unwise. Perhaps nobody'd ever called him a genius before, but this took the cake.

Just now, however, he was decidedly convinced that he was hearing things. Not the sort of barmy things he would be hearing (and doubtless seeing) after a while in solitary, but something faint and faraway, filtering through the cracks. It wasn't nearly clear enough to figure any sort of theory about what might be going on, but it did not sound like business as usual. That there, he was almost bloody positive that had been a gunshot, and he tensed, gathering his haunches under him, swearing under his breath as he wrestled with the chains. He couldn't think of what damn fool would be stupid enough to start a ruckus in the Tower grounds themselves, apart from perhaps himself, and with himself shut up here, that rather limited the options. He grunted, yanking and pulling, but only succeeded in getting himself trussed up like an idiot. He was practically dangling upside-bloody-down, wondering how on earth he was going to top this next time (assuming there _was _a next time) when he heard rattling and chinking at the door of his cell.

_Bloody hell. _Were they coming to interrogate him _now? _In one sense, he might not mind getting it over with, but he was dangling here with his arse in the air and there was a certain dignity he'd like to march in with, which did not quite qualify in the present situation. He kicked, managing only to turn himself furtherly vertical, as the latch continued to squeak. It didn't sound exactly like a key. As if whoever was trying to get in did not have one. Which might lead to the insane but still potential conclusion that they were trying to get him _out. _Which – what even the –

The door jerked one last time, iron bars grating back. The extra bolts groaned and strained, but he could distinctly hear someone picking at them. And he'd only ever known one man so handy with locks and knots and cuffs and chains and getting out of every sort of entrapment that could be imagined, but –

One more clatter. The heavy door groaned an inch or so open. Then another. Then a splinter of dim, strangled light fell through, and there was the absolutely bloody last person on the face of the earth that he had ever expected to see, standing there as coolly as you damned well pleased, as if they'd crossed paths at a traveling fair and not in the depths of the bloody White fucking Tower of the bloody Tower of fucking London. "Scarlet. Trying out to be a bat, eh?"

"Shut it, you," Will snarled, jerking and writhing and helpfully presenting his rear aspect for the Captain's personal examination (well, mooning 'im was only the least of what he could do to express his strong feelings on the matter). "Get me out of these damn things or get in 'em yourself, serve you damn well right."

Hook cocked a categorically sardonic eyebrow. "Now, that's no way to speak to someone who's here to rescue you."

"It's exactly the way to speak to someone who left me behind in Archibald sodding Hopper's office and ran off like a nincompoop!"

"Ah." The Captain stepped in and began working at Will's chains, clearly in a hurry but still not desperate. "Would it help if I did say I was sorry for that?"

"Wouldn't believe you anyway. Oy, watch it!" Will tried to spin himself around in midair to get a look at what exactly the villain thought he was up to with the hook, but no use. Sensing that his best contribution to the process would to be remain as still as possible, so he could get free and _then _punch the arsehole in the pretty face, he forced himself to hold his peace as Jones pried at the locks. He knew they didn't have much time. The guards would be up here any second, even if they _were _momentarily distracted, and they would find them a nice set of his-and-his fetters if they were caught like this. But the Captain, no matter his other and numerous character deficiencies, was a professional, and in a few more moments, Will was forced to do a stupid little somersault as he fell out of his chains and nearly landed on his head. Before the Captain could say a word about how this was liable to improve either his looks or his intelligence, he popped to his feet. "Right. Don't really need the guided tour, do we? Let's scarper."

"After you, mate." Hook swept a flourishing bow as they darted out of the cell and down the steps beyond, trying to navigate the twisting, narrow stone without splattering all the way to the bottom. Will would have fired back something snappy if he could bring it to mind, but he couldn't, just now. Was only trying not to do anything that he would regret later, could think about the appropriate response when they were out of here – there was no way Hook was going to let him back on the _Jolly Roger, _was there? Not that he wanted to return, not really. Turn around and Bob's your uncle and Killian would be handing him back to –

Will's ruminations were cut joltingly short, however, as torchlight flared in the hallway directly in front of them, and the dramatic ingress of numerous enraged Beefeaters in their silly poofter uniforms was to be observed. Killian grabbed him with his hook and jerked them both behind a suit of armor just in time, and they stayed utterly silent, occasionally exchanging mutinous glances to let the other know they still didn't like each other, thanks plenty. As soon as the Beefeaters pelted past and up to his cell – meaning they'd find out he was gone momentarily – Killian made a lunge out, but then had to jerk back again as two men in silken cravats and fine beaver tophats, clearly gentlemen of worth, followed the guards, looking annoyed at the ruckus and conversing in low voices.

". . . this rate, do us far more good to storm into the _Riksdag _and hold a bloody pistol to their heads. . . what on earth the President supposes himself to accomplish with this hare-brained plot of trying to kidnap the _Queen. . ."_

"You know the _Kongeriger _has the best quality of the stuff in the world. We can't let a woman hold us hostage for power. And what with all this talk of the Highland miners going on strike, stubborn Scottish heathens, two or three birds with one stone, you know."

"Yes, but how he reckons he's going to get his hands on the _queen. . ."_

"Wouldn't do to be doubting him, don't you think?"

Beside him, Will felt Killian go very stiff, listening as hard as he could. So was he, for that matter. Aside from the fact that this clearly had something to do with another nefarious escapade by Robert Gold, it sounded like something of cardinal significance to know. The _Kongeriger __Norge og Sverige, _the United Kingdoms of Norway and Sweden, had the best deposits of aether in the world, the magical golden dust that powered every magician and every government and every magisterium. Queen Elsa of Norway and Sweden, however, had recently become a massive pain in the Royal Society's arse, enforcing trade embargoes and hiking customs dues, in retaliation for their economic manipulation to drive the price of aether to dirt-cheap lows; Britain made all the money in the current system, and the _Kongeriger _made none. And as the Royal Society needed aether to continue doing magic, they could not merely stop buying; the Scottish mines did not produce enough, and not of the best quality. It had been a brewing tension for months, and now seemed to be coming to a head. If Gold was so far out of his bloody mind as to _kidnap the Queen _and hold her for ransom, force the _Kongeriger _to capitulate. . .

_Bloody hell, _Will thought, this being another of the useful situations in which it was perfectly acceptable. Almost all magicians, those trained formally at school and university who did it as a profession, were "symbionts" – they needed to have a physical quantity of aether on their person at all times to perform spells, and doing so used it up, requiring periodic replenishment. Most British magicians kept their aether in gilded snuffboxes or monogrammed cufflinks or signet rings with secret compartments, and each month they had to present themselves at Society headquarters with the proper paperwork to receive their next month's supply. It was as tedious as any bureaucracy, but it was in the Society's vested interest to keep it that way. Then they could control who was using magic, under what conditions, and easily cut off troublemakers who were running amok. It was also why they hated "savants," or those naturally gifted to sense the aether and who could do magic under any conditions, so much. Most of the savants were the ones who ended up in the Night Market, outside the Society's regulation and control, and hence dangerous. There were wild rumors that if you applied to join the Society, they strictly ensured you were not a savant – and if you were, well then, then the gods' own luck ever being seen again.

Therefore, if Queen Elsa was throwing her weight around with the Royal Society's aether pipeline, she was in considerable danger. Might have already been kidnapped, knowing Gold and the way he got what he wanted. Not that he would ever be so clumsy as to be caught with his fingerprints on it. It would look entirely like someone else's crime, and he would be the one to magnanimously swoop in and solve the crisis – after wringing considerable concessions from the _Kongeriger_, of course. But if not, if they knew it was him all along. . .

Will waited until he was sure the magicians were gone, then grabbed Killian and broke cover, sprinting full-bore out into the Tower garth. The night had gone mad with yells and gunshots, he saw something that he'd swear was a damn wolf lunging at another rank of guards – and nearby, perhaps the most shocking of all, the blonde woman he had met at Archibald Hopper's. Elizabeth Turner. Currently being besieged by a flock of ravens descending on her – she was screaming and batting at them, but more and more were closing in –

Will merely stared, lost for words at the demented rigmarole he had suddenly woken up into, then jerked at the Captain's arm. "Oy! You! Let's go!"

Killian Jones paid no attention. Instead he hesitated, then wheeled around, drew a pistol, expertly cocked it with his thumb, and let loose into the shrieking swarm of birds above Elizabeth's head – though Will would wager a bloody fortune that wasn't her real name, even as Bill Crimson hadn't been his. (Clumsy effort, he knew, but she was beautiful, what was he supposed to do – be clever?) The shot ripped into them, scattering black feathers, and the ravens cleared off momentarily. Enough for Elizabeth to get free and struggle over to them, blonde hair coming down in loose tangles. "What the – _where's Dr. Hopper?"_

"Haven't seen 'im!" Will yelled back. "And how's it this evenin', Miss _Turner?"_

"Wha – oh." She stared at him, then in a moment more, recollected where they had met before. "What do you mean, you don't know where Archie is?!"

"Didn't see him after the bloody peelers caught us at his office, eh? Only took me here. Him, God knows, though I think I might 'ave seen him gettin' carted away to an airship or – "

This fascinating disquisition was interrupted with another volley loosed overhead, and the Captain grabbed Elizabeth by the wrist, pulling her against him, as they made a communal exit as fast as they could go back toward the river gate. There was a skiff there, but the guards were closing in, they weren't going to make it in time, they weren't –

Will felt every hair on the back of his neck stand up, and then a monstrous shadow leapt overhead, landing and taking form as a huge grey wolf that snarled and snapped and bared its teeth at the Beefeaters, who screeched to a halt with appropriate exclamations of horror. Someone was shouting for someone else to fetch a silver weapon from the armory, and another was yelling that the Metropolitan were on the way with _their _wolves, and in the merciful moment of time this bought them, the Captain jerked Elizabeth with his hand and Will with his hook and toppled them all three overboard into the tiny boat, which rocked and sloshed and nearly went under. But they recovered long enough for Elizabeth to grab the pole, the Captain to fire another revolver at one particularly hardy Beefeater who'd dodged the wolf, and Will to sit there like a useless twit as the boat lurched wildly into motion.

"What about Ruby?" Elizabeth screamed. "Are we just going to – "

"She seems to have it under control, love!" Killian bellowed back, pulling another pistol out from his limitless supply and putting the ball neatly through a Beefeater's hat. "Let's just get the bloody hell out of here!"

The Traitor's Gate was hammering to. They would never make it out, would be pinned against it, trapped and ripped to shreds. But then Will had just enough presence of mind to throw his arm out, feel the pain as the iron teeth of the portcullis grated against it – he'd spent too much bloody time recently being bit by something or other – and wrench it back long enough for Elizabeth to slam the nose of the boat through the gap, gunshots hailing into the water all around them and the acrid whiff of saltpeter burning the back of his throat. Then, impossibly, they were through into the dark water of the Thames, Elizabeth poling madly as Killian provided covering fire for their retreat. Will's apparent purpose on this excursion remained only to serve as cannon fodder, but he flung himself flat as a round tore over his head and splashed off to starboard. Lights were flaring along the riverbank as the alarm spread.

"Got – to get – _out _of here," Killian panted again, and shouted something to Elizabeth. She sped up with the poling, and he was doing something with the ring on his thumb, the one that triggered a klaxon on the _Roger_, letting the pirates know that their captain was in danger and they should bring the ship to him immediately; the magic link also provided their location. They only needed to survive a few minutes more, give the crew time to get her fired and flown over here, and indeed, that was exactly what they did. Then with a roar from the skies, a great dark shadow swooped overhead, as someone above threw the rope ladder.

Still firing with his good hand, the Captain pushed Elizabeth toward it, and Will grabbed her around the waist and hoisted her as she clawed for the first rung. The night was split apart with white-hot flashes and the crack of artillery. Glancing up, Will could see the _Roger _running out the long nines, strafing the ancient ramparts of the Tower with fire. But Elizabeth was still climbing and he was climbing after her and last of all came Killian, his gun clicking as it emptied. The _Roger _was already pulling up, gaining altitude, as all three of them tumbled onto the delightfully solid deck and just lay there for several moments, wheezing.

"There, Cap'n, how's that?" The voice of Mr. Smee came from above them, offensively cheery. "Another tight corner wiggled out of and no harm done, wouldn't you say?"

"Depends on your definition of harm, I suppose." Killian Jones rocked back onto his heels, still panting, and then slowly chanced his feet. He leaned down to give Elizabeth a hand, which she accepted warily. "Get us the bloody hell out of here."

"Already underway, Cap'n. Which course should we set?"

Elizabeth opened her mouth in outrage, pushing away from the pirate. "If you think you're going to get away with keeping me on this ship as a – "

"Could always jump right back overboard and fly to your friends in the Tower, Swan. If they didn't shoot the bloody bejesus out of you first."

_Swan, eh? _Will thought, intrigued. Whoever she was, the woman was looking outraged as the Captain turned back to Smee. "I have certain information to sell to my patron that shall make me a very rich man indeed, as regards the actions of Robert Gold and the Royal Society. Not to mention a few other bits and pieces that will be to his interest. And he told me where to find him when I had such things. Hence, that is where we'll be going."

Smee blinked. "Your patron? Jafar?"

The Captain shot a narrow look at him. "Mr. Smee."

"Right then. So, Paris?"

A pause. "No," Killian Jones said. "Prague."


	8. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

The Astronomical Clock was the marvel of Prague. Gilded hands stroked age-old paint, golden numbers, and the rings that fitted the arc of the heavens and measured the inexorable path of time. There were many intricate figures, the signs of the zodiac, the coordinates of the sky. An astrolabe measured them and relayed them to the circling rings, four in all, which moved to the delicate whir of machinery and treadles. It ran the same as any other clock, subject to the terror of faulty windings and broken springs and stubborn gears, but it was more than that. The Astronomical Clock held the secrets of the stars, and the legend ran that its architect had been blinded to prevent him from ever equaling its majesty. This wonder was housed in a square stone room at the top of a square stone tower, grey stone inset with glowering window-slits and a crowning spire. The only way to get to its mechanical room was by a set of steps, which were chained and barred. There was good reason for this: there was a belief that the clock could prophesy, and what it said was not to be disregarded. It was also said that once a year, at the turning of the calendar, it showed the fate in store for Prague.

This was, naturally, much debated. The soothsayers and horologists that were apt to give their opinions on it had no standing in public society, though it could not be denied that just a few short years ago, the clock (if one counted bursting into flame) had seemed to predict the rebellions of 1848, against Chancellor Metternich and the Bohemian Magisteria. Even with several shiploads of smuggled weapons bought from a notorious airship pirate, the Czech edition of these had not enjoyed much success. Prague was a city of bitter discontent: with the stifling bureaucracy, with the powerful British Royal Society that had helped quash the revolts (wanting no rivals to London as the magic capital of the world) with the strict rationing of essentials imposed as punishment, and near about everything else. Groups of students gathered in smoky taverns, handbills appeared on the bridges over the River Vltava, and the narrow lanes, crowded with tall stone townhouses and red-tiled roofs, seemed to beckon with whispers and strange things hung in dark shop windows, rain spattering the worn cobbles. The graveyards played host to an increasing number of mediums claiming to speak to the dead. Several times it had been suggested that they direct their efforts in the direction of the late, great sorcerer and rabbi Judah Loew. If ever there had been a time for the golem to rise again, this time was now.

Prague, in short, was an inferno waiting to happen, and all that was needed was one small spark.

* * *

Once she had recovered from her discombobulation and dislike at finding herself trapped aboard the _Jolly Roger _for the foreseeable future, the first thing Emma did was refuse to take the captain's cabin. She would find herself some dark corner down in the hold and stay out of everyone's way, thanks, but Jones was persistent. "The alternative is bedding down with _that _lot of hooligans – " a disdainful glance at Will Scarlet – "in the crew's quarters, and none of us want that, do we?"

"I dunno," Will remarked. "Wouldn't be the worst thing that's ever happened to me in my life, eh?"

"And that would be precisely why you need the cabin," Jones went on, not missing a beat. "A. . . well-bred lady such as you, it would not be at all mannerly. Just take it. I'm not to have any use for it, I'll be off steering the bloody ship. Though you strike me as the sort of woman who could manage herself quite nicely if there should happen along a threat to her virtue. Good night, then."

And with that, and no further ado, he strode off to the foredeck, leaving Emma scowling after him and a clearly still rather hopeful Will Scarlet lurking at her back. "Er," he said, clearing his throat. "S'pose I should thank _you _at least for gettin' me out."

"I didn't have anything to do with it," Emma said coolly. "I was hoping to rescue Archie Hopper, not you. It was Hook's idea, so you can save it."

Therefore afforded the opportunity to make her own pointed exit, she did so, after just long enough of a delay to make it look as if she was not obeying their orders. But she did need a quiet place to gather her thoughts, and the captain's cabin was the only place she could hope to have a degree of privacy. Thanks to the first mate's injudicious slip of the tongue, she now knew that the captain was working for Jafar, the very one Gold had mentioned to her, who was possibly searching to raise the terrible and legendary Golem of Prague and do – well, she didn't know exactly what, but she had a hunch that it wasn't to invite the Royal Society over for afternoon tea. Was she supposed to thwart Jafar, or hope that he succeeded, to get her off the hook (so to speak) with Gold? But no matter how anxious she was to avoid punishment, she couldn't quite extend that to wishing destruction on all of London. _So I'll make deadly enemies of two powerful and dangerous sorcerers. Wonderful._

Blowing out a breath, Emma shut the cabin door behind her and leaned against it. It looked essentially the same as when she had last been here, with the obvious lack of amorous pirates, and after making sure the door could lock, she crossed to the table and sat down. She was still notably short on anything resembling a plan. Bluff it as far as Prague, she supposed, see what intelligence she could gather on Jafar and his dealings, manage the high-wire act (she had before, though admittedly not to this degree) and stay balanced long enough not to get too far on anybody's bad side. Jones had offered her protection, but that was a fool's errand. He thought she'd be _safe _with a wanted criminal, constantly one step ahead of the countless factions that wanted him dead? She still had the option of a deal with Pan in her back pocket, she reminded herself. But considering how that could turn even worse than what she was currently in. . .

Absorbed in her unquiet thoughts, Emma did not immediately notice that the ride, instead of smoothing out as they ascended, was growing noticeably rougher. Finally, as she was almost pitched out of her chair as the ship yawed hard to port, she was forced to grab onto the bed to steady herself, but the floor continued to rock and roll. Then something hit the ship broadside, clanging off the heavy timbers with a sound like a cannonball, and considering the circumstances of their departure, this was not at all out of the realm of possibility. She could hear shouting and pounding footsteps above, and decided on the spot that the only thing worse than being a virtual prisoner on a pirate ship was to die on said ship while hiding uselessly belowdecks like a coward. So she threw back on her cloak, pulled up her hood, and emerged into the tempest.

The wind caught at her, screaming, and almost flung her off into the bottomless, boiling cauldron of clouds below. The pirate ship was flying into an anvil of pitch-black cloud, lightning crackling in sickly spears, and the rain was hard enough to drench her in instants. Nonetheless, she staggered across the deck toward the helm-house, where a goggle-wearing, oilskin-clad Killian Jones was hauling on the wheel with hand and hook and bellowing orders to his crew. Preoccupied as he was, he didn't see her until she loomed up directly in front of him, then jumped. "Bloody hell, lass! What are _you _doing here? Get below!"

"What is going _on?" _Emma likewise had to raise her voice over the roar. "Are they – are we – "

"Aeromancers, I'd wager a damn fortune." Hook cursed and wrestled the wheel. "We weren't exactly inconspicuous leaving, after all, and they think if they can magic up enough of a gale – "

Just the, one of his crew shouted something up at him, and the captain roared back, gesturing at the thunderhead. Emma gaped, then stared. "You're not flying _into _that storm, are you?"

"They'd be bloody madmen to follow us, wouldn't they?" The ship jolted forward as more gas crackled into the zeppelin, and she nearly lost her balance again, grabbing at the pirate's arm. "Besides, I just got this damned thing back together, I'm not letting them tear it apart!"

"You can't outrun that, it's _suicide – _"

"I'm a hell of a captain, love." Despite everything, his teeth flashed at her in a cocky smile, even as the rain was now slanting almost horizontally into their faces. Hell, he _was _insane. Aeromancers were magicians whose specialty was manipulating the weather – they could provide, for a trifling fee, a lovely clear day for your wedding, a blizzard of hail and foul sleet when your rival was driving in his new open carriage with his wife in a new dress, or other such requests, and if there were several of them working together now, conjuring up a tempest great enough to knock an airship from the sky –

No time, though. They were picking up speed, jerking and swaying, buffeted by the wind and water. She could see the muscles in Hook's shoulders standing out through the jacket, pasted to his skin by the rain, as he fought the wheel, and after another particularly deafening crack of thunder, he almost lost hold of it. Without time to think, merely acting on instinct, Emma butted in next to him and grabbed hold of it as well, the two of them steering the ship into the maelstrom of clouds, dodging and weaving as lightning crackled through the silver aerials. Despite herself, she felt a heady rush of exhilaration, a faint awareness that they made an excellent team, moving instinctively together as she leaned into him, he leaned into her, and they kept the _Roger _just ahead of the worst of it. They were making it (why was she pleased about this?! They still weren't allies!) they were going to –

Emma only had a flash, almost a premonition, before a titanic white blast lit up the dark sky, throwing them sideways, and she heard a horrible hissing, wheezing sound as the ship did in fact begin to lose altitude, and fast. Through the glare, she could just see that one of the silver aerials had been struck and melted, and a spark was running up toward the silk dirigible. Hook was swearing and spinning the wheel to no effect, she could see Will below sliding across the deck as it was tilting, grabbing madly for a handhold but finding none, everything was jumbled and chaotic and happening too fast and then out of nowhere –

– it turned oddly, peculiarly slow. She was raising her hands as if to shield her face from the coming explosion that would kill them all, but it seemed to be taking a very long time. There was an odd heat in them as well, one that didn't come from the lightning, bubbling and brewing over, and she didn't know what to do with it other than throw it as hard as she could up at the wreckage, a golden net blossoming from her fingers and streaming upward –

And then, just as abruptly, everything went completely silent, as if time and space itself had been frozen. She could see it all very clearly. They weren't falling anymore, remained suspended in the sky, until with a flick of her wrist she directed them back upward, knitted the aerial back together, doused the spark – it was easy, shockingly easy. Everyone remained exactly where they were for the duration of this exercise, as if she was the only living person in a museum diorama, until all at once the trance broke and the noise and tumult of the storm crashed in around her, knocking her to her knees. She felt weak and drained and dizzy and terrified, not sure what she had just done or how, until a dark shadow loomed over her and the captain was covering her with his heavy leather jacket and bellowing at Will. "Bloody hell, Scarlet, take the helm and try not to crash us! _Now!"_

Doubtless Will made some smart remark about how Killian Jones had better not strain anything by daring to trust him even that much, but Emma didn't hear. Her legs still would not support her, she sucked air but couldn't get enough, and colored spots were reeling in her vision, so she had no choice but to hang onto Hook with both hands as he carried her below into the cabin, shut the door, and set her down, with astounding gentleness, on the bed. As she shivered and clutched the jacket closer – even wet, it was warm with the heat of his body and oddly comforting – he said grimly, "You're a savant, love. A bloody powerful one. Did you know that?"

"I. . . what?" Emma wiped the raindrops off her face. She knew dimly that this was some sort of magical classification – and also that it was not a good one. "I'm – I don't have magic, that was an – an accident. A one-time thing."

"Aye?" He raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "An accident that you channeled the aether and put the whole ship back together with barely the blink of an eye, and that now you feel like absolute death? That's what it's like when that much latent power bursts out of you, that you can't contain or control. It's dangerous, if you repress it and repress it. It makes you go insane, eventually, or worse. If you do have it, you need to be trained."

"No. I'm a bounty hunter, not a. . . not one of. . . them." Much as she lived in and around the magical underworld, Emma had never felt any particular desire to join it. "Besides, what the hell do you know about this, anyway?"

"More than you think, love," he answered evenly. "Just to name one consequence, you know the Royal Society would be after you hell-for-leather if they discovered you were a savant."

Again, one of those oblique comments where she couldn't tell if he was slyly hinting that he was on to her, or fishing for information, or genuinely concerned about her well-being (that one at least she could safely cross off the list). And how convenient for him if she suddenly couldn't go near the Royal Society again. "Remind me again what that even is?"

"Someone who can perform magic whenever they want, who isn't dependent on physically having the aether dust on them. The Royal Society keeps their rank-and-file members, the symbionts, in order by rationing out a supply to them every month, can raise the amount if they've done well or cut it if they've misbehaved. Very effective. But for savants, see, you can't do that. That's why they don't admit them; you can't control their power. That's why they all end up in the Night Market, hunted and outlawed."

Emma made a noncommittal noise. Knowing the general temperament of the Society, she could not say that this information surprised her in the least. "And what? You just happen to know someone who will train me, out of the goodness of their heart?"

Killian Jones shrugged. "No, I don't. But it seems that magic is a part of you, Swan, and you'll have to reckon with that one day. I've spent a good deal of time crossing up the Royal Society. I'm warning you, don't underestimate them."

"I am quite sure I can make that decision myself, without your help." She was still cold and wet, but Emma stood up sharply and shed his jacket, leaving it in crumpled leather folds on the bed. "When we reach Prague, I want – " Christ, what _did _she want? "You will let me off the ship, and permit me leave to go about my business."

"And why would I do that, darling?" He studied her with those intensely blue eyes, the hint of a smirk playing at the fine-cut lips. "You've already proven that you mean me no good, and while I bear you no particular grudge for it, I'm not about to let you go running off to whoever you're working for and turn me in. I do value my own skin rather more than that. I _am _a gentleman, so you will come to no harm as long as you are on board my vessel, but nor will you be allowed your personal liberty. When we arrive in Prague, Mr. Smee will be watching you."

"Not Will?" Emma asked, taking a gamble. "You don't trust him – you don't want him near what you're doing, surely?"

"I'd rather bloody have him where I can see him, rather than here making lost-puppy eyes at you and cocking up my plans all over again. And if you are not here when I return, well. . ."

"What? You're a great and terrible pirate and will tear Prague down stone by stone until you find me?" She scoffed, flouncing her damp skirts around, uncomfortably aware that there wasn't as much space between them as she would like, and she seemed oddly unable to pull back. Maybe another kiss would properly dazzle him again, render him unable to hatch whatever cunning plot he had in mind. He had certainly seemed to enjoy their last one, but so had she, which was dangerous. She couldn't keep playing a game that might eventually backfire on her, but for now, she had no other weapons to hand. She put both hands on his chest, running them slowly over the wet, clinging sheer fabric of his shirt, and lowered her voice to a sensuous whisper. "Is that what you're going to do?"

He stared back at her, tongue creeping out to touch his lip, his ringed hand coming up to caress the curling blonde tendrils of hair out of her face. "I'm open to suggestions, love."

"Mmm?" Emma murmured, wedging herself closer, solidly against him. She moved one hand around to the back of his neck. "No bargain anywhere? You _are _a hard man, aren't you?"

"Indubitably." He gave a little thrust against her, letting her know in no uncertain terms that indeed he was, in more ways than one. They were starting to share breath again, her heart was speeding up despite her strict instructions to the contrary. It was merely animal, she told herself. That was all. She knew damn well, and so did he. Great Britain under Her Majesty, Queen Victoria, might be outwardly sternly repressed, buttoned-up, and puritanically severe about anything even possibly approaching carnal relations, but behind closed doors, they wrote all sorts of filthy literature, drew nude sketches, enjoyed bawdy burlesque shows, and more. Besides, Emma herself had never had the luxury of a naïve, sanctimonious view on the matter. She'd learned early what it was and how to use it, and she felt absolutely no guilt about doing so now.

She leaned in, stroking the point of the captain's ear. Slid her other hand down his back, pressing him into her, as his eyes fluttered and a deep, male sound of satisfaction inadvertently issued forth, sparking a small bright heat in her own stomach. Determinedly ignoring it, she leaned forward, and was just about to see if his resolve to keep her captive would withstand another kiss, when the cabin door abruptly banged open, bringing with it a blast of wind, but not as much rain. "Captain!" Mr. Smee shouted. "Think we've made it clear of the worst of the storm, sir!"

"Thank you," Killian Jones snapped, pushing himself quickly backward from Emma. "Thank you very much."

"You're welcome, Cap'n!" Smee beamed munificently at them both, then shut the door, apparently still in blissful ignorance of anything else he might have interrupted. Killian swore, running a hand through his hair and making it stand up in wild black cowlicks, then bent to retrieve his fallen jacket, shrugged back into it with a squeak of wet leather, then stepped back, bowed precisely, and strode out after his first mate.

Emma sat down abruptly on the bed, aware that her knees were not as steady as she liked, and not just from the aftereffects of the magic. _I would have stayed in control, even if Smee hadn't come in, I would have done what I needed to and that would have been the end of it. _Trying to distract herself, she focused on the lantern across the room, wondering if she could in fact light it with her mind, but as hard as she stared, nothing happened and she only felt queasier than ever. _See, he was wrong. I don't have magic. _Of course he'd be lying about that. Just trying to scare her and manipulate her into his control. Deep breath, then another. Yes, the man was a peak physical specimen, but she knew better than that. No more of this game. She had to find another.

At last she stood up, emerged from the cabin into what had become a light sprinkle instead of a drenching downpour, and quickly hurried belowdecks before anyone could see her. Skirted around the crew's quarters and descended into the dark, dank hold. Found a sheltered place against the bulkhead and sat down, pulling her knees to her chest and wrapping her cloak tight, shivering. Leaned back, closed her eyes, and listened to the distant hum, felt the ship fly on, until at last she fell into an uneasy, turgid sleep.

* * *

Emma was awoken some interminable time later by the sight of a lantern bobbing through the dark hold, a crash and a loud _"BLOODY HELL!" _as someone stubbed his toe, and a sheepish-looking Will Scarlet materializing behind the light, limping and trying not to swear some more. "Oy, lass. What in damnation are you doin' down here? It's cold and dark and smells like arse. Besides, we're almost to Prague. Come on."

Emma sat up groggily, rubbing her eyes. Ignoring his offered hand, she struggled to her feet. She was hungry enough to eat a brace of oxen raw, but didn't plan to still be aboard ship long enough to eat. Though she could ask for something, that might put them off their guard. She'd just have to think on her feet, that was all, and she followed Will without protest to the ladder, climbing up after him into a cold, rose-colored dawn. Looking over the railing, she could see the spectral, gothic spires of Prague rising in the mist, the distant glow of still-lit streetlamps among the narrow streets, the glass of the River Vltava bridged by elegant triple-arched spans, and the castle on its high hill. They were coming down for a landing, the captain behind the wheel, as the city rose up to take them in. They hit with a splash and a fantail of water, riding the wash to the nearest quay, where the crew scrambled overboard to make them fast. Emma stood watching, a new plan occurring to her, and as Hook and Will were making ready to go (evidently he was not joking about keeping him in sight at all times) she stepped forward. "I'm coming too."

"No, you're not."

"If I'm staying on this ship, you're tying me up."

"Don't tempt me, love." Again, that bloody tongue flick. If it wasn't illegal, it should be, and Emma suddenly found herself having a great deal more sympathy for the committees on Public Virtue that should be regulating such things. "For a one-handed man, I am quite deft with knots."

"Are you?" Smiling demurely at him, Emma hiked up her ruffled skirts just far enough to expose one well-turned ankle in its black heeled boot (prompting a reverent murmur of awe from the crew) then strolled to the side and jumped overboard, landing on the pier with a clunk. "How about when I'm off the ship and oh. . . strolling up to the city? What then?"

With a muttered few words that sounded distinctly like, "Bloody woman," Hook and Will followed her overboard, landing on either side of her. After a few shouted instructions from the captain to his crew, they set off into the dim, shadowed streets. Here and there a candle flared from behind wooden shutters, or a shopkeeper was out sweeping his stoop and hanging his shingle, but for the most part, Prague was still asleep, though the knocker was out with his long stick, rapping on people's windows to get them to rouse in time for work. The bells of St. Vitus Cathedral boomed in the distance, calling six, the hour of Prime.

Emma quickened her pace, drawing level with Hook. "Have you been here before?"

"Oh, aye. Sold them weapons in the '48 risings. The reason for which the Royal Society first condemned me to death – or was it the second? After I deserted the Navy, that must have been the first. And there might have been more. I don't remember."

"How many prices _do _you have on your head?"

"A fair few." He shrugged. "You get used to it after a while. Hurry up, you lollygags, we're on a schedule."

"Schedule, is it?" Will Scarlet muttered dubiously. "And what're you intending to do with us while you trot off to your nice mornin' tea with your barmy sorcerer mate? Post us to keep the watch, or stuff us up and give us as presents?"

"As a matter of fact, I do expect you to wait for me. I wouldn't inflict you on anyone as a gift. Furthermore, I shall know if you attempt escape, and it won't go well for you. The lady I might disposed to consider with more leniency, but not you, I'm afraid."

"Of course. You didn't do anything like leavin' me behind to get shut up in the bleedin' Tower, why would I have the least reason not to trust you?" The young thief rolled his eyes. "Oh, none, not at all, innocent as a little lamb, that's you, probably sounds like a bleat when you f – ouch!"

"Shut up," the pirate ordered tersely. "We're here."

They had come to a halt in front of a tall, gloomy townhouse, indistinguishable from any of its tall, gloomy neighbors in the narrow lane, but with a certain foreboding air about it that made Emma think she would indeed be quite all right with remaining outside. Heavy dark curtains veiled all the windows, the carved bronze knocker glowered ominously, and a faint smoke was spiraling from the chimney, vanishing into the hoary mist. All three of them surveyed it up and down, momentarily united by the unfamiliarity, and Will scratched his head and said, "Looks like that place in bloody Fleet Street where they found the barber and his missus was makin' blokes into pies. Now, you are an annoying bastard, Jones, but turnin' you into supper seems a bit cruel. Think of all the poor folk who'd have to eat you."

"Your wit is just as dismal as it was the last time, I see." Hook raised one dark eyebrow. "You two shall wait outside until I come back. I hope the audience shall be brief, but even if it's not, you'll be here. Otherwise, cannibalistic pastry will be the least of it."

"Aye aye, captain." Will snapped off a resigned salute, then glanced at Emma and smirked. "Don't worry, we'll be havin' ourselves plenty of fun down 'ere wifout you."

"Cannibalistic. Pastry."

"Fine, fine, keep your 'air on." Will leaned against the grey stone wall and began ostentatiously inspecting his fingernails. "So," he said loudly to Emma. "How about the weather, then? Ruddy awful. Can't think who'd make us stand out in it."

She had to bite her lip despite herself. "It's not that bad. You're from London, you must be used to it."

Hook eyed them for a long moment with a deeply malevolent expression. At last, evidently electing not to waste further time, he strode past them up the townhouse steps, banged the bronze knocker with authority, and waited until the door swung open. Then with one final glance back at them (she was surely imagining things to think it was in any way concerned) he vanished into the sorcerer's lair.

* * *

Inside the house, it was dark as the devil's armpit, if not smelling quite as bad, and Killian had to walk with hand and hook outstretched, trying to lessen the chances of him blundering into some irreparable artifact and giving Jafar even more reason to be displeased with him. He did not have the bottle the man had asked for, but he hoped to barter the information about Queen Elsa and hence gain some time and lenience in which to do so. In the back of his head, there was a small voice asking if he really thought Jafar was going to attempt any sort of humanitarian act to save her from the Royal Society's clutches – if he did, it would just be to kidnap her himself and likewise hold the _Kongeriger _over a barrel. But, Killian reminded himself, that was immaterial. He was a pirate, he didn't care about any kings or queens or even if all of bloody Europe should go up in flames again. There would be plenty of work for him if so, and Jafar would reward him with the information of how to kill Gold, which was still all he cared about.

His shin painfully encountered what appeared to be the first of a set of steps, and swearing under his breath, he gingerly lifted a boot, discovered that this hypothesis was correct, and ascended up to the landing, where the light was better. There was no sign of which among the several closed doors might contain a dread sorcerer behind it, so he shrugged, chose the first one at random, and knocked on it. Not that one, so he crossed the hall and tried another. He was just wondering how long this would keep up when a voice from the end called, "Down here, Captain."

Blinking, Killian oriented himself in the correct direction and proceeded through into a large, beamed room with heavy mahogany bookcases and tall windows, equipped nearly as lavishly as the previous residence in Paris. He hesitated on the threshold, then made an impeccably correct bow. "My lord."

"Indeed." Jafar sat behind a claw-footed table, clad in pinstriped morning suit and silk cravat, placidly stirring sugar into a cup of tea. "You should have announced yourself. That way we could have properly known you were coming. I did not expect to see you so. . . expeditiously. Surely you have good news to hasten you on your errand?"

"Of a sort, aye."

Jafar continued to stir sugar into his tea, set the spoon down, and delicately picked up the cup, pinky extended. He took a genteel sip, then put it back on the saucer and buttered a crumpet. "Prague seems familiar to you. You will have been here before, I gather."

"Aye." Killian glanced around. "You travel in style, evidently."

Jafar laughed. "My dear captain, this is only one of several properties I own. Prague and I have always found common purpose in our loathing of the Royal Society, I daresay I spend nearly as much time here as I do in Paris. So, then. Do you have the item of my interest?"

"No, but I do have information. Robert Gold and the rest of his creatures intend to kidnap Queen Elsa of Norway and Sweden, in a ploy to force her to remove the embargoes she has placed on the aether trade. It won't appear to be by their hand, of course. Someone else shall visibly do the dirty work, and then Gold gets to swoop in and be a hero by resolving the crisis and valiantly winning the queen her freedom. Hence resulting in even more and bountiful aether supplies for Britain, and the poorhouse for the rest."

Jafar took another sip. "How fascinating."

Killian had hoped for something a bit more substantial than this; the man did not even look surprised in the least. "We'd have to wreck his plans then, aye?"

_"We? _What a familiar article, and used with so little merit." Jafar sighed. "While it is, I suppose, incidentally useful that you have some worth as a political spy, I have other personnel directed to that end. Though it would be quite a spectacle, I grant you. She's a savant, did you know?"

Killian was caught off guard. "Wh – who?"

"Queen Elsa." Jafar smiled. "Her particular magic is some branch of hydromancy, manifesting as ice. Most likely that's how she has been able to enforce her blockade – if she freezes the aether steamers in port, they can't sail south and sell their cargo to the British anyway, as some captains of dubious reliability may be tempted to do if all that was at stake was money. As for the airships, a similar principle applies. Freeze them solid. Such an elegant solution, if rather an ill-advised one. And I have always found savants so interesting, don't you agree? How is it that they alone defy the laws of nature that govern the rest of us? Man is not meant to do magic without the assistance of the aether dust, yet they do, as easily as breathing. No right, no wrong, no rules. They are free. Do you imagine the ability is heritable, bred in the blood, or perhaps transferable, like vampirism or lycanthropy? Someone as wealthy and powerful as Queen Elsa can escape censure for it, but another one, say. . . I should quite like to have one for my own, for inspection and dissection. Do you know where I could find such a thing, Captain?"

"No. True savants are very rare. Most of the crowd in the Night Market are charlatans or hankymen or symbionts who simply were not good enough, or not high-born enough, to be admitted to the Royal Society. And I've heard the Night Market itself has encountered a spot of bother. In short, you'd do better looking for leprechaun gold at the end of a rainbow."

"How very Irish of you, Captain. You sound so English that I nearly forget, sometimes. But you are quite resourceful, so if I did formally put the task to you, you could surely carry it out. Especially if the price of failure was my extreme displeasure. You _will _soon have that bottle, I trust?"

"Aye. Matters were just a bit. . . complicated, first."

"They seem to have become unusually so, ever since you entered my employ. Sit down, a gentleman does not hover like a stork at breakfast." Jafar gestured at the other brocade-backed chair, which after a moment of hesitation, Killian occupied. Patting his mouth daintily with a linen serviette, the sorcerer went on, "Revenge, in my experience, is rarely a complicated affair. You _do _want it, don't you?"

"Of course. More than anything."

"Good. It would be a pity if our paths diverged so soon. Though I shall admit it is not entirely undesirable that you turned up here, as there _are _other ingredients you can procure for me. You will have heard, I presume, of a golem?"

"Aye."

"Clumsy things. Blood magic and clay." Jafar sniffed. "I have been making enquiries into the method of its crafting, as a contingency plan if you will, but I have no real intentions to _use _it. I prefer far more sophisticated methods. Yet it is crucial that the Royal Society thinks this is my actual aim, so I have allowed myself to be seen and heard doing so, and must maintain the illusion to the fullest degree. There is one particular item – the _shem, _the enchanted paper that gives such a creature life – that I have found myself unable to come by. I do have an inkling of where one might be located, but no present way to acquire it. Are you following my intimations, Captain?"

"Quite easily, thanks." Killian rested an arm casually on his knee. "You want me to get it. Why? How will this help me kill Gold?"

"Patience, my dear fellow, patience. All will be revealed in time. In the interim, you shall merely have to trust me. One other matter." Jafar set aside his breakfast plate, made a deft motion with his hands, and while Killian had not seen it before, in the next instant, a black-handled dagger with an ancient-looking iron blade had appeared between them. Jafar held it up, and it caught the watery light in a strange, eldritch shine. "Do you know what this is?"

"Should I?"

"In the _Key of Solomon, _a grimoire incorrectly attributed to the biblical monarch of the same name – who was himself a noteworthy sorcerer, I will have you know – mention is made of a black-handled knife, the _arthame_, of particular power. But the _Key _was in fact the work of Renaissance magicians, in the age when aether itself was discovered and first made use of. There is a theory that aether is particles of space and time and light itself, that the manipulation and control of all these things are possible to one who truly masters it. This knife, well. . . one must be cautious when trawling in the antiquities market, of course, but I have reason to believe that it is the very _arthame _the grimoire refers to, and hence capable of great things once I unlock its full power. Do you think I have come this far to fail in my task? Surely not, Captain."

"No," Killian allowed. He did not doubt it in the least, in fact, and nor did he doubt that Jafar was telling the truth. He had never had a drop of magical ability in any shape or form, and had always been devoutly grateful for it, but even he could sense the _wrongness _boiling off the knife, like a black stain on his bones, as if it could cut a hole into the fabric of the world itself and let the demons out to devour it. He felt slightly nauseous, as if the room was turning under his feet. "I, ah, appreciate your point most clearly, my lord. Shall you just – ?"

"Certainly. How discourteous of me." Jafar made another motion with his elegant, long-fingered hands, and the knife vanished. "Now then. I have rather a busy agenda for the next fortnight. I have just closed a deal on a piece of property in Monaco, that little seaside principality by France and Italy. Not much to look at, just the moment – the district it's located in is known as, I am led to collect, _Les Spélugues, _or 'Den of Thieves.' Terribly unaesthetic, wouldn't you agree? But that was why I was able to buy it so inexpensively, so I suppose I should count my blessings. But I intend to build a house of gaming there, a casino, for the rich and idle élite of Europe. The first order of business is to change the name. Monte Carlo, I think. It makes it sound much more exclusive. Make fools think they are princes, and they shall gladly give you much more of their money, by their own free will, than you could ever have acquired dishonestly."

"I have encountered something of the same, my lord. So. . ."

"I shall leave on the morrow. When I return, I expect that you will have procured the _shem. _If so, we shall continue our business interests. If not. . . well, you would really rather prefer to avoid that eventuality, Captain."

"Mmm." Killian leaned back in the chair. "So where is it?"

"In the vaults of St. Vitus Cathedral. There was quite some fuss and feather that the _shem _was originally a _Jewish _piece of magic, you see, and that would not do at all. So some magician in the pay of the Catholic Church came up with a new version of it, imprimatur and all, and that is the one I seek to acquire. I cannot do it myself, as there are certain protections that will. . . detect me, shall we say. But you, as a person of no magical ability whatsoever, can do it with some luck and skill, both of which I am certain you possess in spades. Even the Tower of London itself might not be safe from your determination."

Killian paused, then nodded stiffly. "Aye. I can do that."

"Capital." Jafar gulped the rest of the tea, and made a gesture that was clearly of dismissal. But as Killian got up to leave, he glanced up and added, "Oh, and do pass along my regards to Will Scarlet. So. . . kind of you to see he wasn't left behind."

"I – am not quite sure what – "

"Oh, and a gentleman would never fail to present his compliments to a lady." Jafar's lips split in a very white and very lethal smile. "Especially one so charming as Miss Emma Swan."


	9. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Will Scarlet and Emma Swan had been standing side by side, listening to the distant bells of Prague call the morning hours as misty sunlight blossomed over the city – she imperviously repelling his periodic attempts at small talk – when the door of the brownstone flew open with a crash. The reason it had done so was for a clearly out-of-temper Killian Jones, coattails swirling, to storm through it in magnificently black dudgeon. This he did, without so much as a sidelong glance at them, and proceeded out of sight down the alley at a correspondingly blistering pace. They had to run to catch up with him, which Will did by the arm, spinning him back around to face them. "Oy! Where n' blazes are you off to now, leavin' us behind as a snack? Because I'm not bloody going to do that ag – "

"Shut up," the pirate snapped, in quite a different voice than the exasperated, but still wickedly bantering, tone he tended to take with the thief. "We've got something else to steal, and we have to do it as soon as possible."

Will arched a skeptical eyebrow, in perfect imitation of the captain's own habit. "Oh? And what's it this time? The Queen of Sheba's jewels, I reckon?"

Hook flinched for some reason, but angrily brushed it off. "My – patron," he said, with a sharp glance at Emma, "requires something kept in the vaults of St. Vitus Cathedral, which he cannot retrieve himself due to there being wards against any attack or any person of magical origin. I, for obvious reasons, cannot permit the lady out of my sight, as then she'll immediately run off and turn us in to whatever highly placed employer she has in the British Government. Nor can I permit you to watch her, because I don't trust you either. Therefore you, Will Scarlet, are going to do as you did at the Great Exhibition, and steal us the item in question."

"Am I." The young man's tone dripped sarcasm. "Let me out of your sight and trust me to do what you want and not, say, nick it for myself and sell it out for some staggeringly high sum? After you've just told me to me face that you won't and you don't? You have a bloody peculiar way of makin' friends, mate."

"You're not my friend. You're a member of my crew. You will do as I command."

"Am I?" Will repeated, crossing his arms. The tension between the two was quickly darkening to open belligerence, and Emma prepared herself, putting a hand to her derringer in the event she needed to fire a warning shot to break up a fight – a scenario which would then bring every constable in the city down on their heads, and hence was to be stringently avoided. Maybe she could just knock their heads together. "Seems to me that you made it damn clear I wasn't, not no more. And you can't _make _me do anything. Pirates' code. Men serve or leave at their pleasure. Can't be pressed or forced like the bloody Navy. So – "

"I am delighted to see that you are so intimately acquainted with the work of our friends Morgan and Roberts," Killian Jones said icily. "But not so well as you think, else you'd remember that the captain _can _press men when there is no one else suitable for the job. Not to mention that desertion in times of battle is punishable by death, and believe you me, this _is _a battle. Aye, you may have ended up in the Tower by your own clumsiness, but _I _bloody well got you out of it. You're mine, as long as I like, until I say you can leave. And I don't say."

"Why, you. . . you. . ." Will was briefly to be observed fishing for an insult of suitable potency. "You grub-faced, snot-nosed, shit-arsed, pig-fucking, sleazy, treasonous, miserable, buggering _carbuncle!" _he burst out at last. "Throw me out like rubbish one day, then hold me hostage the next when you need something. "You selfish, arrogant son of a whore, I don't – "

_"I have to!" _Hook roared, his voice echoing off the windows. "I have to! He'll have what he wants, and then I'll get what I want, and I'll have my life back! I have to. . . I _have _to!"

Despite herself, Emma winced at the raw, naked anguish in the captain's voice – and was disconcerted at how closely it resembled her own. From the look of things, both she and Killian Jones were doggedly pursuing service for powerful, dangerous men, against their better judgment, out of the desperate belief that when they were done, said men would reward them with everything they had ever desired, had suffered too long without. _But what if there are some things that even magic cannot mend? Even if Gold and Jafar kept every promise they made, and that is less than likely? What if we are just more of the same useless, disposable fools, gulled by the promise of having it all – who would not be? _She wondered suddenly who Killian's demons were, why he was so hell-bent on this, and then reminded herself that it was better not to know. Circumstances had forced them into a grudging working relationship, but they were, at best, cordial enemies. And he was still supposed to not even be that, just another faceless mark she turned in for the money and never thought of again. Supposed to be.

She and Will stood staring at Killian as his outburst faded – was that a glimmer of tears she saw in his blue eyes? Surely not. The pirate dragged his hand across his face, struggling to regain his composure. "As I said. We have no choice."

"Oh, but we do, mate. Sayin' we agree to this stupid plan of yours – why can't all three of us go down and get it?"

"Because as she proved to us so spectacularly on the ship, Miss Swan – oh, I doubt you've been properly introduced, Emma, Will, Will, Emma – is a savant. To take her down there, assuming the information about keeping out magical persons is correct, would not go well."

"So?" Will persisted. "That's a problem how? Seems to me it would be plenty convenient for our current difficulties if she just went. . . poof." He waved a hand vaguely, in demonstration of this fascinating phenomenon.

Emma's hand tightened on the handle of the derringer, removing and cocking it in the same swift motion. "If _that's _your plan, I'm afraid something much worse than 'poof' is going to happen to you, right here."

"Don't mind her," Killian informed Will, "she derives a great deal of . . . satisfaction from pointing guns at gentlemen of our particular description. As for your suggestion, no. I'm not going to waste her on _that, _Christ! A savant could be useful in any number of ways, or profitable in others." His eyes darted briefly back down the street to Jafar's fortress-like residence. "Henceforth, as I said, the plan remains the same. We wait. You steal."

"Like hell I'm goin' to stick my neck out again and do all the dirty work to please your majesty. Specially if you're not even telling me what this bloody whatsit is."

Killian glowered at him, but Will glowered right back. At last, the captain expelled a frustrated sigh and glanced from side to side, scanning every corner and cranny for potential eavesdroppers, then beckoned Will nearer. Emma moved unobtrusively in as well, but even she couldn't make out what Killian whispered into his compatriot's ear. She did, however, see Will's startled, bug-eyed reaction. "What?! Bloody hell! No!"

"He says it's just a bluff," Killian snapped. "He's not planning to actually _use _it."

Will regarded the older man with utter disbelief. "And you're buyin' that bill of goods, Jones? _Really? _He wants it just for collector's purposes, look nice in his parlor, that so? He'll have it there any time he wants! He could hold all of Prague hostage with that threat – bloody hell, all of Europe! I don't know much about this fellow, granted, but from what I do know, he strikes me as the sort who should be clapped up in that asylum back in London. He's not bloody _stable."_

"It doesn't matter to me what he's planning to do with it," Hook said flatly. "I don't care about Prague, or London, or the Royal Society. If he accomplishes what I suspect he's hinting at, it won't even matter, anyway."

Will continued to look stupefied, slowly shaking his head. "You're bein' a complete and total prat, I'll have you know, and that's the kindest way to put it." With that, he turned to Emma. "You. Tell him he's bein' a prat."

"And what on earth makes you think he'll listen to me?"

"Thought it was obvious. He fancies the lacy underthings right off you, that's why."

Emma choked, but Hook only looked furtherly annoyed. "Shut it, Scarlet, before I make you."

"Oh, make me, is it? That's right, I forgot, the only damn things you love in the world are the ghosts of your dead brother and your dead lady friend. And your ship, I suppose, but she don't keep you warm at night."

"Shut. It." Hook's face, instead of flushing, had gone pale, icy-white and remote. "Fine. What do you want? Name your price, I'll pay it. Just steal the fucking thing."

"We don't have to do this," Will said stubbornly. "We could leave, go somewhere else – America, maybe. The Royal Society's got no power there. There's all sorts of talk that 'alf the damn country is right pissed about slavery, there might be a fight comin'. Plenty of work for us."

"And what?" Hook sneered. "Set up a happy home in a ménage a trois? No _thank _you."

"Why d'you have to be such a bloody bastard all the time? I was serious!"

"We're not going to America. End of discussion. Now – "

"All right then. In that case, these here are your choices, Jones. We all three of us go down there together and get the sodding thing, or you go down there yourself and leave me to watch the lady_. _I ain't doin' it alone this time."

There was a fraught, loathing silence, as Emma could see that Hook was calculating his chances of coaxing, cajoling, or clobbering his underling into submission. Then at last, he swore again and spun away on the heel of his boot. "I really hate you, did you know that?"

"Bloody well, thanks," Will groused. "You're no basket of kittens and roses either, Cap'n. Right then. I'll help you steal the fool thing and hope you get your arse beat like a rented mule, because frankly you more n' deserve it at this point. Then when that's done, it'll no longer be a time of battle, so I'll have the right to leave the crew as I please. _You _and the rest of the lads might not be goin' to America, but _I _will. I'm gettin' far away from this madness, and fast."

Emma thought she spotted something odd in Killian's eyes, something desolate, angry, confused, almost heartbroken, but if so, it was gone again in the next instant, and his usual bitter, guarded expression took its place. "Very well, then," the pirate captain said coolly. "It's an accord."

Both men spat on their palms and eyed each other malevolently, then shook hands. Emma, however, hesitated, as this left her in something of a pinch. She was not eager to go down and confront whatever shadowy menace might lurk in the cathedral (though she was a fool to be worried – she didn't actually _have _magic) but nor could she permit Killian Jones to once more hoodwink her and get away. That entailed going with him, but this also might be her only chance to escape and alert Gold of where they were and what was happening. There was no good choice, only the matter of selecting the lesser evil, and she was still wary of what Hook could know about Henry. If she did take him down, it would not be difficult for him, or his crew, to retaliate against her son. Lady Regina would defend him, Emma tried to reassure herself, but as far as she was aware, Regina was only a well-to-do Yorkshire lady who knew nothing about magic or the secrets of the Royal Society or any of it, wealthy women being vigorously discouraged from such topics of study. Hook's hare-brained tales about her having an enchanted vault were surely just that, lies and nonsense. _Will that be enough? _It was very slender surety.

She cleared her throat. "If I'm not needed in this transaction, I shall just. . .?"

"Oh no, lass," Hook said, with a charming crocodile smile. "You're coming with us."

* * *

Though she had lived an adventurous life and run a great deal of risk, within the bounds of the law and without it, nothing in Emma's repertoire had prepared her for the experience of how one might go about robbing a cathedral. Though she was the furthest thing from devout, she couldn't help but feel a sinner's cold shiver scurry down her spine, as if the retribution for failure would be far worse than usual (or for success, come to that). Normally, one would start by picking up small magical items – and Prague had plenty of these establishments, even with the Night Market out of commission – but considering that magic was precisely what they did not want on this job, step one was perforce skipped. Emma asked if they were going to return to the ship, only for Killian to inform her that it was gone, had upped anchor and flown off soon after they disembarked. Smee and the crew had their orders to be spotted as far away from here as possible, plant a false trail about where he was and what he was doing. It was another example of his formidable cunning, and once again made her realize that she underestimated him at her own clear and present peril.

Instead, they passed the day in a small, steep-roofed garret room, in a boarding house run by a large, square German hausfrau, who eyed them all suspiciously but asked no further questions after Killian accidentally spilled a large quantity of golden coins on her desk. There was a narrow bed covered with a patchwork quilt, which both the men gallantly offered to Emma, but she declined; there was no way she was going to sleep in front of them. Killian shrugged, then lay down on the floor, covered himself with his heavy leather jacket, pillowed his head on his arm, and appeared to drop under almost instantly.

Emma watched him carefully, expecting some sort of trick or trap to put her off her guard, but as his breathing deepened to soft snores, she was forced to conclude that it was in fact genuine. She sat down on the bed, and despite her resolve to remain awake, she found herself drowsing too, until her head snapped up with a start and she realized in complete confusion that it was the middle of the afternoon. Hook and Will were sitting by the window, discussing their plan in low voices, and upon seeing that she was awake, the former waved her over. "Hey, love. Will's nipped a bit of food. You must be hungry."

Emma was about to stiffly rejoin that she was not, thank you very much, but her stomach growled loudly, making the lie quite obvious, and she gritted her teeth and came over to join them. She wondered which honest Czech baker Will had burgled, but the savory sausage _kolaches _and warm stuffed pierogi were too good to resist, and she couldn't remember the last time she had eaten; she barely stopped to breathe until her share was gone. Hook and Will appeared entertained by her unladylike manners, but made no comment.

When she had gulped down the last crumbs, the pirate said, "Right then. We go after the bells have sounded Compline. There won't be any worshipers there, and the priest will have gone to bed. I've got this – " he pulled a glossy paper from his waistcoat, which when unfolded proved to be a pennyfarthing tourists' map of the cathedral – "and the entrance to the vaults is here. I am sure there will be magical barriers or obstacles of some sort, but otherwise, I'm hoping we can be in and out by midnight. Then we'll take a public dirigible to Monaco and deliver it to my patron in person. No mistakes this time."

Emma had heard of the stratagem of hiding in plain sight before, but this felt too dangerous. Still, she could not think of a good way to object, or even if she should. Maybe she could wait until they went down into the vault, then shut it, lock it, and run. There would be no airships leaving for London until the morning, but that was a small matter. With no magic, Hook and Will would be trapped underground with no way to get out, thus ensuring that they would be right there when she returned with Gold to collect them. It was possible. More than possible, it was the best plan she had yet had, and for some reason, that frightened her.

They whiled away the last hours in a tense, introspective silence, counting the bells, until it was time. They all donned heavy dark cloaks and hurried downstairs, out into the chilly autumn night, and Emma kept close to Hook as he led them into the twisting streets. Evidently his previous escapades smuggling weapons here had furnished him with an extensive knowledge of its back roads and byways, and they spent particular time traversing a tunnel that, from its mud floor and faint rushing sound overhead, made her suspect that it led under the river Vltava. They climbed out on the far side, looking at the specks of light embroidering the dark city, the neat lines of roofs, the uprising of spires, looking like the background cut from black velvet for a puppet shadow-play. Then Hook beckoned them on, they traversed a narrow path alongside a high stone wall with a head-turning drop off the bluff on the other side, worked a postern gate open, and finally emerged into the cathedral courtyard, under the high clock tower with its elegant cupola capped in patinaed green. They crept around to the narrow triple-arched portico on the right, and Will knelt down with a pair of slender wires in hand and applied his professional skill. Shortly thereafter, they were inside.

Emma's first impression was of overwhelming _space – _great and echoing, soaring to the sky, forests of stone like frozen, filigreed lace, pouring in a waterfall and arrested in time just before it struck the floor. The great rose window behind them twinkled dimly, as well as the sea of half-burned white candles that stood in wooden racks to the rear of the sanctuary, nestled among pictures of saints and worn rosaries, prayers for the souls of the humble dead. Emma and Will were about to hurry past it, but surprising them both, Killian stopped, dipped his fingers in the bowl of holy water, and crossed himself. Then taking a taper, he lit one of the candles and placed it carefully among its fellows, watching it for a long moment. The glow lit an odd look in his eyes, and Emma was furtherly taken aback. The pirate had not struck her as a godly man, though she _had _seen the silver crucifix he wore, and it might not be a bad idea to pray for success, if that was what he was doing – though she suspected that God, if He did exist, was liable to take a very dim view of the miscreants in His house. She lingered, tempted to pull on Killian's sleeve and summon him back to earth. They didn't have time to waste.

"Oy, mate," Will hissed, evidently thinking the same thing. "Let's keep movin', eh?"

Killian started, frowned at them, then shook his head, dismissing the reverie. As they moved into the narrow transept that paralleled the nave, Emma whispered, "What was that for?"

"My mother." He didn't look at her. "She'd have wanted it. And I – I was raised Catholic. So much as I was raised anything."

That once more came as an unexpected insight, one that Emma did not much want – and yet she could not keep back that pang of curiosity and almost sympathy, wondering who he was. After all, he hadn't been born Captain Hook, nemesis of the Empire, but must have become so in desperate circumstances. She remembered what Will had said earlier, about the ghosts of his dead brother and dead lover, wondered if it was just them. Enough to make a straight-laced young Navy lieutenant abandon everything he had ever believed in, and emerge only determined to destroy and destroy, to make up for the black abyss in his chest where his heart had been.

Emma was the one who had to snap herself back to the present this time, looking around. The candles and the glow from the stained-glass windows provided just enough light to transform absolute darkness to grey-black gloaming, to see the fluted columns towering up to the ogives braided far above, across the ceiling. The high altar stood at the far end, like some great sculpted angel watching them, and Emma had to firmly repress a shudder. Not that, not anything, just –

They turned the corner, down into the croft that led to the vaults, and she almost screamed.

Only long practice enabled her to bite her tongue in time, and Hook's hand gripping her arm hard. As the first shock receded, she saw that they were statues, just statues, which the government, evidently thinking them an effective deterrence to the dim-witted, had paid several penny-dreadful sorts of artists a handsome sum to sculpt. The nearest was a chimera, birthed from the pit of hell, or at least Emma _thought _that was what it was supposed to be; the monster looked only as if it had eaten something disagreeable and was suffering riotous flatulence. Its clawed fists each clasped a goggle-eyed sinner, done fashionably in bronze, and its companions, a cadre of outraged cherubim, hovered nearby, venting their fat cheeks into reprobating trumpet blasts. Very Last Judgment, she supposed, or perhaps a warning of what happened to ye who ventured here (abandon all hope, indeed). All sorts of things must lie hidden in St. Vitus' depths. Prague _was _renowned for its magical knowledge and power – was the headquarters of the famed and feared sorcerers' guild, the Bavarian Illuminati, the only real rival the Royal Society still had – and where better place to hide all the things rival magicians craved most desperately to get their hands on, but the one where they could not go? It gave Emma a chill to think of everything that might be down there. _And if it gets stolen from at last, will that open the floodgates?_

She stood tensely, somehow not wanting to turn her back on the statues, amateurish as they were, as Will and Killian inspected the apparently unprepossessing bronze grate that guarded the entrance to the vaults. A pure and perfect darkness breathed out of it, the cold black air of the grave and the deep sepulcher, and Emma felt the hairs rising on her arms and the back of her neck. _I do not want to go down there._

Oblivious to her unease, Will and Killian conversed in hushed whispers that nonetheless sounded, to Emma's panicky brain, as loud as a shout. As Will crouched in front of the grate, apparently to resume his lock-picking duties, Killian glanced back at her. "All right, love?"

"Fine." She certainly was not about to reveal any weakness to him. "Why don't I – I stay up here and keep watch?"

The pirate gave her a long look. "Keep watch, or run to fetch the guards on us?"

Emma flushed, angrily at how easily he had read her. "I had no intention of any such thing," she lied. "But it seems counterproductive to send all three of us down there together."

"We've come this far together." He shrugged. "Don't worry, love. I'll protect you."

She was on the verge of firing back another tart retort, but it abruptly died on her tongue. This place _was _unnerving her, he clearly was not about to take the risk of leaving her behind to do a bunk, and she made no protest as he took her arm and escorted her nearer, not quite letting go as they watched Will at his work. The bright _ching! _of his instruments against the metal made Emma wince again, glancing around. She had the oddest sensation that the statues were moving behind her back the instant she took her eyes off them, but that was just her imagination.

It took Will quite a bit longer than it had taken him to obtain entrance to the cathedral, but finally, he eased the grate open, revealing a narrow stairway down into the darkness below. They had passed the tombs of several Holy Roman Emperors and other luminaries on their way in, and Emma wondered if someone or some_thing _else was interred down here – again not a thought of particular comfort, and she instinctively leaned into Killian's warmth. As much as she was well aware of what and who they were to each other, he at least was alive, and more or less interested in her welfare. She thought of what else Will had said earlier, about him fancying her, then dismissed that as well. It was just manipulation, the same as she was trying to do to him.

"Right," Will breathed. "Onwards and upwards, then? Or downwards?"

"Aye." Killian's hand fell to his sword hilt, almost unconsciously loosening it a few tugs in the scabbard, and then he offered it to Emma, helping her down onto the first step. With Will coming after them, pulling the grate closed but not locking it, they began the descent.

It had been quiet in the sanctuary to start, but Emma noticed how quickly all sounds utterly fell away, as if gulped up by the mouth of some great beast; even their footfalls barely echoed, muffled up, as they kept on following the dark, twisting stair. They had almost no light, having not dared to bring an aether lamp, and had to grope along by touch, her body pressed close alongside Killian's as they continued to wind into the bowels of the cathedral. Whenever she came close to losing her balance, he steadied her, and she was clinging to him more than she wanted to admit. Will came along behind them, which was better than having nothing there.

As her eyes slowly began to adjust to the blackness, Emma could make out faint contours of ancient stone, which might have been first laid here in the cathedral's great buildings in the fourteenth century. Here and there was an arch close over their heads, a sense of something watching them, flickers in the shadows, skittering that might have been rats. She _hoped_ they were rats, at least. The stairwell was opening up into a low, dank earthen passage, stumps of torches still burning in iron sconces. Even that amount of light made her squint and wince, blinking hard and wiping away the watering.

"Bloody hell," Will whispered, emerging into the passage after them and glancing to all sides. "Your terrifying friend give us any helpful bits about where to start lookin'?"

"More or less," Killian answered abstractedly, still holding onto Emma as she huddled against his chest. God, it was cold down here. The air was heavy and thick and damp, biting right through her cloak, and it was starting to make her teeth chatter. She hoped this wouldn't take very long, could feel a sensation like insects crawling all over her, gooseflesh stippling her skin. "We've got to keep going."

With that, the three burglars continued to tromp down the underground corridor, Will also sticking closer to Killian than strictly necessary; Emma was encouraged to see that at least she wasn't the only one feeling adversely affected by this bloody spooky place. As for Killian himself, if he was unnerved, he didn't show it. They reached a wooden door at the end, which he pushed through, and into another, smaller chamber. The ceiling was low enough here that even Emma had to duck, and they scuttled along, bent double, as it funneled into a serpentine labyrinth. Still so quiet. Not that this was, per se, a bad thing. It was better than the alternative, at least. Not as if she _wanted –_

"That." Emma froze. Was certain she'd heard something, faint and distant, but still distinct enough to be sure. It sounded like someone. Someone screaming. "What was that?"

"Didn't hear anything, love." Killian tugged her back alongside him. "Come on."

Since it was hardly as if she had another option, Emma let him, though she had to admit a growing resentment at him for leading them down here in the first place. _Though if what Gold wanted was down here, and he promised me I could have everything by finding it, I can't say I'd do any differently. _She still didn't know exactly what it was they were looking for, but thinking of the golem's eye that Gold had showed her back at the Athanaeum Club, she did have a sinking suspicion. Will had said that Jafar would be able to hold all of Prague for ransom, if he had the possibility of unleashing a murderous clay giant, well-nigh indestructible, on them at any time._ What have we gotten ourselves into?_

Just as Emma was thinking of the oddity that it was indeed _we, _that it was the three of them having to work together to get out of this, a sensation like a silent lightning bolt ripped through her from head to heel, and before she knew exactly what had happened, she was on her knees, gasping vainly for air, and Killian – who had been gripping her hand tightly when it struck – was kneeling over her. "Jesus. Jesus! Swan? Emma? Are you all right, love?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" she muttered, rubbing a hand over her face and trying to stop shaking. She tried to get back to her feet, but her knees were water, and he caught her before she could fall again. She felt as she had on the ship, right after she had done whatever she'd done to save it and put it back together, as if something had erupted out of her with a force too great to be controlled or contained. Her fingertips felt hot, and when she looked at them, she could see them gently spitting fat, floating golden sparks into the air. "I – let's – just – go."

"Aye, if you say," he murmured, still looking concerned, as she hung tightly onto his arm and they started forward again. Their footsteps sounded squashy, damp. It must be her imagination, but she felt them trembling far away into the earth, as if something much larger was walking too.

"Where's Will?" she asked, trying to distract herself. "He didn't – "

"Gave us both a turn when you went down, love. You. . . weren't there for several moments. I stopped to see to you and he went ahead to scout the passage. So far as we can make it, we're almost there."

This was welcome news to Emma, getting out of here as soon as possible, and made her quicken her pace. They turned the corner and entered another narrow bottleneck, but the passage, oddly, seemed to be sloping _up _under their feet. Another few yards, and she was certain of it. There was also a breath of fresh air ghosting across her face, clean and cold, that didn't smell like the mold of the crofts, and she moved instinctively toward it.

The passage ended in another set of stairs, and she and Killian – she realized just then that they had forgotten to stop holding hands, but she'd get around to that later – exchanged a glance, then started up them. "Will?" Killian called. "Oy, you up there?"

The words echoed, but no answer came. Yet Emma grew increasingly sure that she could in fact hear voices – not angry ones, but indeed happy ones, and something that sounded like singing. The closer they climbed to the surface, the more she was convinced. And then they emerged in a dark culvert with a grate at the end, pushed it aside, stepped out, outside – and stared.

When they had entered the cathedral, it had been a chilly autumn night at the end of September, Michaelmas eve. Now, snow cloaked the quaint houses and towers of the city, more falling swiftly in the light of the streetlamps, and every window glowed with welcoming cheer. Sleigh bells and church bells chimed silver in the distance, and wreaths and other festive ornaments were hung at doors and posts. Emma could see several decorated pine trees, of the sort that Queen Victoria and _The Illustrated London News, _reporting on the ones set up in Windsor Castle,had popularized in London quite recently – but those were for Christmas! They couldn't – how could they –

She was starting to shiver, even in her cloak. Killian was already peeling off his black leather jacket and draping it around her shoulders, as he had on the ship, and she didn't refuse it, too dazed to do much of anything, as they glanced around. "Where are we?" she stammered.

"The same place we were before, love. Prague. Just. . . seems there was a wrinkle of some sort." Jones did not look as worried as she felt; in fact, a small, almost sweet smile was pulling at his lip. "I'm sure we can find our way back. But we don't have to go right away, eh?"

"What do you mean?" She trotted after him to the courtyard gate, as he opened it and they passed through the castle complex and down to the street on the far side. Heavily bundled carolers whizzed past them in gales of good cheer, and men in ragged cloaks and coats were wheeling barrows of roasted chestnuts. The chocolatier on the corner was doing a booming business, and several folk hailed them cheerily in Czech, to which Killian responded with a few polite words. Emma's head was turning in every direction, still trying to fathom how they had ended up in the middle of a picture-perfect Bavarian Christmas. What had _happened _down there?

Killian stopped to admire a nutcracker in the window of a woodworker's shop, _Drosselmeyer & Son _swinging over the door. His expression was now so openly nostalgic that Emma had to ask. "What is going _on? _Why are you so _happy _about this?"

"I've no bloody idea what's going on, love. As I said, we'll sort it out in a bit. But I. . ." Killian paused, then turned to her seriously. "I was here for Christmas, a long time ago. 1835, I think. I was sixteen. My. . . my brother had gotten leave for the holidays, we'd spent all year abroad, and he decided to surprise me. We went to Prague, and he bought me a nutcracker just like this. It was the first time I'd ever had a real, frivolous Christmas present, his gifts tended to run to the devastatingly practical. It's. . . it's one of my happiest memories."

Emma was surprised, but once more able to see, despite herself, how he would be in no haste to run away from it, might want to steal a few more sweet moments out of it, lie or otherwise. "Your brother?" she prodded gently. Didn't want to reveal that she knew his name, from reading the dispatches on the _Jewel of the Realm-_turned-_Jolly Roger _in her preliminary research.

"Aye." Killian seemed to realize he'd said too much, and clammed up, but kept looking around, looking and looking as if he could not get enough. "God," he said, half to himself. "Everything looks exactly as I remember it."

For some reason, she couldn't say why, that piqued Emma's hackles. "I'm sure it does," she said. "I'm sure it was lovely. But we should get back to the cathedral now. We still have – our mission."

"Aye, of course." Killian was still glancing around as he followed her reluctantly, their footsteps leaving indents in the fresh snow as they climbed back up the street. It wound around, getting tangled up in the countless side lanes, and she must have taken a wrong turn, because they emerged back into the street with the nutcracker in the window and the barrow-man with his chestnuts, his hot iron brazier setting the cold air rippling. She frowned, started back up the street, and kept on going straight, in the way she knew they'd come from the cathedral, and indeed could see its great twin black-iron steeples rising into the wintry darkness. She quickened her pace, lifted her skirts out of the snow –

– and stepped into the same street again.

Emma stopped dead, her suspicion finally wakened to full-blown flame. "Ki – Hook," she hissed. "I think we're going in circles."

"Nonsense, we were just there." Killian frowned as well. "Come, I know this place, we'll take a different route. Follow me."

Emma did. They climbed up the side street, emerged onto a narrow dead man's walk lined with candles, the snowflakes catching in her hair and landing elegantly on his shoulders; he must be cold without the jacket, but gave no sign. She hurried to stay close to him, as they stepped up onto a winding stair, started the ascent, and at the top –

Stepped out. Into the same street.

This time, even Killian noticed it, and a frown drew his dark brows sharp. He put out a hand for her, drawing her automatically into his side, and she tucked herself against him, all her pleasure – and his – in the idyllic scene completely evaporated. She didn't know where they were, or when they were, or _what _they were. If they'd entered some kind of demented dream loop or memory or hallucination, if they had never left the cathedral at all, if they were even awake. But one thing was inevitably, perfectly clear.

They were completely trapped.


	10. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

Will had just rounded the corner when his companions vanished bang off the bloody face of the earth, as matter-of-factly as if they had merely stepped out to see a man about a dog. There hadn't even been a sound, a hair out of place. Just that one moment he'd heard their footsteps following, and then he hadn't. He peered suspiciously round the bank of the passage, half-expecting the Captain to pop out like the world's worst jack-in-a-box and have himself an ill-gotten laugh at Will's expense, but no. Nothing. Hook and his fetching female companion – Emma Swan, would that be the Black Swan, and _that_ was a new wrinkle and not one he liked – were simply and absolutely gone, with no sign apart from the trampled mud to indicate that anyone had ever been here. Will swept the half-burned torch in his hand from side to side, throwing darting firelit shadows over the crooks and crannies of the crypt, but everywhere he turned, the situation remained the same. They were not here. Not anywhere.

A cold grue ran down Will's back. Much as he and the Captain were having a bit of a rough patch, he suddenly discovered that his animosity toward Killian Jones did not extend to wishing him devoured without a trace in the depths of a dangerous and haunted vault – but if that was how the place defended itself against magical intruders, why the devil had it taken _him? _Before leaving the boarding house, both Killian and Will had taken scrupulous care to divest their persons of anything remotely magical – even the ring that Killian used to alert the _Roger _of his location in case of emergency, such as how they had escaped from the Tower. Not that the ship and the crew, if they had obeyed orders, would be anywhere near Prague anyway, but it was a reminder of how much they, non-magical to the bone, nonetheless relied on it in daily life. As for Emma, she insisted that she didn't have magic, or if she had, she didn't anymore, having used it in one great burst to save the _Roger _(with an extremely pointed look at Killian, as if to remind him that he owed her a rather large favor for that). But if she'd been wrong, and then walked straight into the defensive nexus holding Jones' hand (as she had done the entire time they were down here, as if afraid the other one might fall off too if she let go) it could have gulped up her, and by extension him. So, at least, was how Will could reckon it.

He hesitated, wondering where in hell this left him, and whether he'd see either of them ever again. But surely it was a great waste to just destroy magical artifacts and people, especially when the Illuminati would want to personally examine them and see if they were useful. Hence, the Captain and Miss Swan were very likely still alive – but if so, where? And was it Will's duty to risk his own neck trying to rescue them (they _had _gotten him out of the Tower, an unwelcome little voice in the back of his head reminded him) or to carry out their original mission: finding and stealing the _shem? _If the bloody golem-animating enchanted scroll was even really why that bastard Jafar had sent them down here. Killian did not seem to be aware that Will had cleverly worked out the identity of his mysterious patron (all right, Smee's big mouth had had a thing or two to do with it) and maintained a more-than-robust suspicion of him. Will hadn't heard much about the fellow, but what he _had _heard went sprinting happily past the line of "bad" and dove straight into "trousers-shittingly terrifying."

Right then. With no other apparent option, Will started to walk. The torch was burning quite low by now, and he could feel the heat searing his skin, but he didn't want to drop it; once he did, he was in total darkness. He thought he had heard some kind of sound again, over in thataway direction, and while it was not ordinarily a sound he would like to get closer to, his present circumstances overrode his qualms. He picked and pottered his way through the passage, free hand extended to grope for obstacles, hearing that faint, high keen that raised the hairs on the back of his neck, like a wounded animal or a woman screaming. _Emma? _And where he found her, he was likely (or so he hoped, at least) to find the Captain.

Will sped up, fingers burning, until he swore and shook the scalding embers off his hand, blundering and barking his shins and crashing into every wall there was and likely some that weren't. He couldn't have made more noise if he'd tipped over a bloody tinker's cart, and imagined that the priests and canons and rectors of St. Vitus' were waking in their beds to complain of it (followed by sending an inquisitorial squad down here to root out the infidel and hang him by his thumbs). Yet despite the torch's inconsiderate decease, there was a dim, bloody light limning the dark underground catacomb, just enough for him to make his way by – and to see his breath in the air. That was peculiar, but as it was the least of the peculiarities he was presently confronted with, he put it aside. Climbed up one final set of steps, abruptly went down instead as it changed direction, and hopping on his twisted ankle, beheld a vast subterranean chamber like something out of a fever dream – or nightmare.

It towered away into the blackness, dirty columns splashed with nameless ordure, and red, glowing orbs lazily circled the ceiling. Hoarfrost clung to the walls, sparkling like gypsum, and the first thing Will smelled was something strong, raw, earthy – like wet dirt mixed with a burning undercurrent of flame and decay, but that was not all. It was sharp, searing, like fresh-forged silver and the sting of winter air, bracing as brandy and bitter as hemlock. It was the scent of sorcery beyond a doubt, and before him, the apparent source of it, stood an enormous vat.

After a pause, Will moved to investigate its contents. He was almost afraid of what he would see, but it was filled with nothing more sinister than roiling mud – which, in its way, was quite bloody sinister if you thought of it. He wondered how much of it there was, and it gave him a shiver to imagine falling through endless fathoms, trapped and suffocating. But while he was still staring slack-jawed at the place and trying to figure out what in sheep-diddling tarnation it was used for, the sound came again, directly opposite him, echoing down the columns. And then he looked up, over, and got one of the ruder shocks of his life.

The noise that he had thought might have been made by a woman, had indeed been made by one – but not by Emma, though for a split second he thought so. This one was also blonde, a long, thick white-gold braid coming unraveled down her back, clad in the ragged remnants of a nightdress, feet bare and filthy and hands completely covered by iron helmets that were then chained to the wall. On spotting him, her big blue eyes went wide and frightened, then narrow and threatening. "_Hvem er du?" _she demanded. _"__Ikke kom nærmere! Jeg mener. . . __Nechoď blíž!__"_

Will, for whom foreign languages had never been a forte, responded hopefully, "Bonjour?"

"_Parlez-vous Français?" _she asked, switching effortlessly into that tongue, the lingua franca of all the courts of Europe. Educated, then, and almost certainly highborn as well. _"Vous at-il envoyer ici? Que veut-il de moi__?"_

"Er. . ." Killian was the one good at this sort of thing, not him; the captain spoke enough to trade at almost all their usual ports of call, from Madrid to Milan. The only other French phrase Will knew was "ce salaud a volé mon argent," or "that bastard stole my money," which was singularly unlikely to be useful in the current situation. "Anglais?"

"Yes." She tensed like a cornered cat, drawing herself up. "I am warning you. Don't come any closer. If you're working for him, I'll – I'll have to hurt you."

Will was somewhat incredulous at the idea that she could do anyone much harm, but he was so relieved that they had finally found common linguistic ground that he decided to overlook it. "I'm not," he said, which was only half a lie. He briefly speculated who "he" was, but had a distinct sinking feeling that he already knew. In which case, yes he was, but not for the reasons she thought. "Who're you, then?"

She bristled at his apparently too-informal address. _"I, _peasant, am Elsa of the House Bernadotte, Queen of Norway and Sweden. And _you _are?"

_Oh, bloody hell. _Will had naïvely assumed that this could not get any worse, but he had apparently been wrong. He was dumbfounded. Gold's minions had been discussing the plot to kidnap this very woman, as he and Killian had overheard at the Tower – but how, _how _had Jafar already known about it, acted well in advance to neatly undercut them, and pounced in to steal the queen himself? He'd have to have some sort of incredibly well-placed sneak in Gold's very household, with intimate access to the magician's most secret plans and inclinations. But Gold, who (not without reason) was as paranoid as a deposed dictator living in exile on St. Helena, would surely have sniffed them out first thing. Unless. . .

Will frowned. He couldn't put his finger on it, not quite, but he was nonetheless beginning to grasp an inkling. Jafar's initial condition for employment had been that they (or rather he, because of bloody course) steal the compass from the Great Exhibition. A trivial item, they had all thought at the time. But what if he'd done something with it, created a copy, perhaps – and then seen to it that the fake fell back into Gold's hands? That was the tale Will had heard when the peelers were reading him the riot act. Jafar could be using the counterfeit compass to spy on Gold, some sort of two-way conduit with the real one in his possession, and hence would be half a dozen steps ahead of his rival at the bare minimum. Would know not only exactly what Gold intended to do, but how to checkmate him before he even got there. If so, this was. . . this was. . .

Her Majesty, however, was still waiting on an answer. "Well? Who are you?"

"Will, m'lady. Will Scarlet. I'm a thief," he added idiotically. "How d'you do?"

"A thief?" she repeated, openly scornful. "And that will be useful to me how?"

It was Will's turn to bristle. "Oy. I've got plenty of experience pickin' locks, could likely get you out of there. When you need someone to save your arse, you don't exactly ask for his family tree and coat of arms first."

"I – don't – need – _saving." _She wrestled ineffectually at the chains. "I had this all under control before – "

"Don't look that way to me. I was in a similar pinch recently. Once you get your rump in the air, you'll be doin' as well as I did."

She glared at him. "You talk too much."

"So I've heard. But I don't work for – for him. I'm lookin' for someone. Two someones, actually. Dark-haired fellow with a black leather jacket and a bad attitude, sort of face you'd want to punch if you saw it, and another lovely blonde lady. Bit like you. You seen 'em?"

"No." Elsa stopped struggling, but still regarded him with rankest mistrust. "You're the only person I've seen in days."

"Well. Seems maybe we could be useful to each other." Without waiting for her permission, he stepped forward, pulled out the wires he'd used to finagle the cathedral lock, and started industriously on her cuffs. "How'd you even end up like this, anyway?"

"Oh, I have a suspicion," Elsa said through gritted teeth, making a face at his apparently less-than-delightful odor. "Prince Hans of Denmark. He didn't approve of my aether embargo, and traveled personally to my court to tell me so. Then again, he's been making money hand over fist in backroom black-market deals with the Royal Society, it's no wonder he'd react badly to having that threatened. As well, he still bitterly resents us for my sister Anna breaking off her engagement to him. So I suppose he quietly put the word out that he could deliver me to the highest bidder, and J – my current captor got there first. I should have been expecting it, but they struck in the dead of night while the palace was sleeping, captured me after a long struggle, and took me here." Her lip trembled, but only slightly. "I don't know what he wants."

"Nothing good, I'll reckon. And this Prince Hans sounds a right bastard. Something rotten in the state of, eh?"

Elsa looked surprised. "You can _read?"_

"Course I can read," Will snapped. "Learned on the ship. Always thought Hamlet was a bit of a tosser, myself."

She made an odd noise that might have been hastily intended to conceal a laugh, and held still as he laboriously worked at the chains. It was the hell of a job, but he finally got them loose, sliding one iron cage off her hand, then the other. He was curious as to why they'd been locked up so carefully in the first place; was she going to turn into a harpy and claw his eyes out? She displayed no signs of transforming into an avian man-hating menace, however, so he was safe enough for the moment. She staggered as he undid the ankle fetters, and he reached out a hand to steady her, but she flinched back. "Don't touch me."

"Hey now, I might be a bloody lowborn thief, but I'm not an evil arsehole who just farts around rapin' women for fun and jollies, so if you – "

"That's not what I mean. Not exactly." She hugged her arms to her chest. "I'm dangerous. Trust me."

"Oh," Will said, politely dubious. He pulled back the arm he had been about to offer her, and they proceeded side by side, carefully not touching, to the enormous vat of mud, staring down into its murky depths. "What d'you think it's for? Jafar's openin' a spa, maybe?"

Elsa shot him a very sharp look. "You _do _know him."

"Only secondhand. Never met the chap, meself. Can't say I really want to, either."

She uttered a short, mirthless laugh. "Good. Don't."

This piece of advice was not the thing to assuage Will's deep misgivings about who Killian, the bloody idiot, had so stubbornly attached himself to, and he was about to say so. But just then, he was distracted by the sight of something stirring under the surface, as if a Loch Ness monster had awoken in the deep and was swimming up to them. Not a feeling Will much cared for, especially in this place, and he was on the point of turning to Elsa and voicing his irrefutable opinion that they should skedaddle forthwith – where, he had no idea, just not here. But he never got the chance. That was when the giant clay-scaled hand burst out with an explosion of filth, got him by the leg, and hauled him violently upside down into the air, shaking him like a dog with a bird in its jaws.

Will screamed. Elsa screamed, which sounded remarkably similar to his, and dodged away as the second one erupted from the boiling mud, groping for her. She raised both hands, and Will didn't catch exactly what she did, but he felt a frozen blast of something scrape past his face, saw the hand thrashing madly as it was encased in a wintry carapace of magic, icicles bearding and breaking off with a tremendous clatter. It didn't stop the monster, only slow it, and snowflakes were beginning to fall thickly from the low stone ceiling. Steam billowed up where the icy jets struck the hot mud, hissing and popping, as the giant hand was still feeling around blindly for Elsa, who was backing up, hitting it with more torrents of magic as she went. She appeared set to turn and run, leaving him to his literally shitty fate, but he bellowed, "OY!"

She glanced up at him as if only just remembering he was there, then aimed a surgically accurate blast at the fingers poking and prodding at places where fingers were not supposed to go (at least not unless you'd asked nicely and had a good wine and a bit of snogging first, and _especially _not if they belonged to some murderous, mindless clay behemoth) and froze it solid. It trembled, then burst into a thousand glittering, lethally sharp shards, and Will barely managed to torque himself out of the way as he plunged headlong. He broke his fall and rolled on the floor, then sprang to his feet, ready to continue the battle if need be, but the mud had subsided into glorping, bubbling retreat. He eyed it evilly, still breathing hard, then wheeled toward Elsa. "The bloody hell was that?"

She was even paler than before, but her voice was level. "A golem. A nearly finished one, by the looks of things. The ones crafted from dark magic are given life by the blood of many people, not just their creator's. Once it had the final sacrifice and received the _shem _and the controlling eye_, _it would be fully alive. . . and unstoppable."

Well, this just kept getting better and better. Something occurred to Will just then. "So. . . you're a. . . you're a magical sort of person, you know? So your blood would be far more powerful than the average bloke's. Make the golem a hundred times stronger than it had ever been, and with your freezing magic to boot. If you were intended to be the final sacrifice, and Jafar had got the _shem _from whatever nitwit would be thick enough to give it to him. . ."

He didn't need to complete the sentence, as it was hideously apparent to both of them that this was the case. He didn't know if Jafar had a golem's eye in his possession, the last thing he appeared to need in order to unloose his reign of murderously muddy terror, but it would be a fool who bet against him. The golem lacked form and sentience without it, but as Will had just learned at unpleasantly close range, it was already more than formidable. Damn, and Killian had been just planning to trot down here, steal the _shem, _and hand it over, not a care in the world. . .

Will was beginning to feel ever more like a rat in a trap. Still more, he noted something queer about the icicles: they weren't stopping. They were continuing to grow and sharpen and multiply, as more frost raced up the walls and enclosed the vault to all sides, the temperature dropping even more steeply. "You!" he shouted. "Turn it off!"

"I'm trying!" Elsa's voice sounded high and hysterical. The snow was falling faster. "I'm _trying!"_

"How'd you do it before?" Will slipped on the accumulated flakes and nearly fell flat on his arse, which would just put a damn cherry on the day's humiliation sundae. "Was it some other spell, or – "

"Anna, my sister, she – " The cords in Elsa's slender neck strained as she fought the elemental fury with all her strength. "I can't be sure if she's alive or dead – though if I know Hans in the least, he's holding her hostage – she's the heiress presumptive of the kingdom, after all – and forced her to sign an agreement naming him regent during this terrible crisis – he'll announce to the world – that it was a tragic accident – their dearly beloved queen's untimely death – "

"And you think anyone will _believe_ that?"

"Of course they won't! But Hans will have the full backing of the Royal Society behind him – no one will dare ask too many questions! So even if Robert Gold loses me – he wins!"

Fascinating as this all was, and it was very fascinating indeed, Will still did not see what it had the least thing to do with stopping the swiftly worsening blizzard. Elsa was rusty, out of practice, weak from her imprisonment – or perhaps it had to do with something for her feelings for her sister, he didn't know. So he did the only thing that seemed sensible. He skated forward, grabbed her around the waist, and heaved her over his shoulder, stumbling madly for the door. Where could he go – where could _they _go – they couldn't go back the way he'd come, otherwise they would walk into the same trap that had claimed the Captain and Emma, and they couldn't be sure that there wasn't another one lurking somewhere. His brain whirled madly, only coming up with more blinding white panic. Or maybe that was the snow. It was hard to tell them apart by now.

"Put me _down!" _Elsa beat on his back with her fists, sending small, freezing jolts through him, which was just addin' insult to injury. "Otherwise you'll – "

"With all due respect, Your Highness, stuff it!" Will bellowed, finding the steps by painful accident and bolting up them. "No time to discuss this as a committee!"

"I am _not _a committee!" she screamed, as they went skidding down the other side and he almost lost his balance, but regained it at the last second, not helped by the kicking royal over his shoulder, who he dumped unceremoniously onto her feet. Normally he wasn't the sort of fellow to absquatulate with struggling women, but desperate times and all that, and he was now quite sure that with the magical alarms well and thoroughly set off down here, pursuit was coming like Cerberus and the hounds of hell. This was going to end soon, and it was going to end very, very messily.

Nonetheless, he didn't intend to go out like a ninny. Nor, for that matter, did he intend to fight if it could be at all avoided. There had to be some way deeper, somewhere they could hide until the tempest blew over, in more ways than one. Elsa, forgetting her disdain in her panic, clutched at him as he continued to haul her bodily down the passage. She was clearly dying to shoot off a defensive blast or three, but he pushed her arm down; they could not take that risk. Instead he grabbed her by the hand, whirled her around, and they fled together – down, down, _down, _into the storm and stone and darkness.

* * *

Emma stood staring at the wintry night until she was finally and depressingly certain that this was no dream – or if it was, it was as real as any waking world. Then, having sorted through all the other options and finding none that made a comparable amount of sense (as much as was presently to be found) she turned to the pirate. "I. . . I think we're in your memory."

"I was thinking something rather the same myself, love." His mouth was grim. "You must have triggered the vault's defenses somehow, and since I was holding onto you, I went along for the ride. But if so, why did we wind up in one of _my _happiest memories, not yours?"

"I can't really think of any." Some held joy in their own moments, but all of them were tainted by betrayal or misery or heartbreak. "So I suppose it had to steal one of yours instead. But I did imagine that something meant to keep intruders out would be more. . . violent." She waved a hand at the merry Christmas Eve streets of Prague from the past. "Not this."

"Works just as well or better, though. People will try anything to escape from somewhere they're being tortured, but if it's pleasant, they'll stay forever on their own accord."

That was quite true, Emma realized, and shuddered. "All right. Let's try this. Just. . . think of St. Vitus as hard as you can, and I'll do my best to. . . to help." If something inside her _had _launched them here, surely she could reverse it. "Maybe if you're remembering something different, it will cancel this one out and – "

"Intriguing plan, lass." He was still staring down the snowy lane, with the nutcracker in the window and the chestnut seller. "Though I doubt it would be as simple as clicking a pair of enchanted silver shoes together and being whisked back home in a blink."

"Yes, well. We have to try." Emma reached for him. "Ready? One – two – "

As she was starting to say "three," and ginning herself up for whatever dramatic following action she would have to perform, he abruptly pulled away from her, leaving her feeling the sudden cold at her side where he had been. He tugged up the dark hood of his cloak, rocked back and forth on his heels, then stepped down off the frosted promenade and started into the city again. Aghast at this turn of events, she galloped after him, hauling on his arm as if to bridle a recalcitrant stallion, the warm glow from the windows – each with a candle in it to light the Christ-child's way – throwing their shadows on the white-glazed cobbles. "Have you lost your mind? We need to get out of here!"

He turned on her with a look so searing it knocked her words from her mouth back down into her stomach. Then his eyes flicked down to where she was still holding his arm, and in that moment, Emma could hear both of them wondering how it had come to this, that neither of them was willing to leave the other behind. She let go as if she'd been scalded, but as she was about to ask something else, Killian went stiff all over, as both of them heard footsteps crunching in the snow.

The next moment, a tall man rounded the corner, his heavy blue riding cloak pinned with what Emma recognized as the emblem of the "Sailor King" – William IV, Queen Victoria's uncle, who had served in the Royal Navy in his youth and always retained a pride and patronage for it. This man wore shiny black boots and a gold-trimmed tricorne over his brown curls, and the light of the lamppost revealed a handsome, broad-boned face and keen blue-grey eyes. A military-issue saber swung easily from his belt, and his gloves were black leather – a dashing, solid, clean-cut picture of responsibility and order and good form, undeniably there, real, taking up space, his breath huffing in the chilly night air, snow squeaking underfoot. On spotting them, he stopped short and called, "Pardon me, will you have seen a lad of sixteen or so running through here? My little brother. I seem to have lost him."

Emma marveled at the fact that they apparently looked so distinctively English that he knew to address them in that language instead of Czech, but she was badly startled by Hook's reaction. He made a choking noise and turned away, going to his knees and covering his face with the cloak. And as she stared at him in confusion and alarm – and then back at the man asking for his sixteen-year-old brother – she understood, so coldly and terribly that it felt as if an avalanche had been set off in her stomach. "I – no," she managed. "I'm afraid we haven't."

Captain Liam Jones looked back at her quizzically, then over at Killian, still on his knees. "I'm sorry, is he quite – ?"

"My husband," Emma lied swiftly. There was no reason to question what a married couple was doing out enjoying the holiday night; anything else would require too much explanation and prompt too many awkward questions. "He's. . . he's just upset. He lost his brother recently as well."

"I'm terribly sorry," Liam said again, in apparently sincere sympathy. "Is there anything I can do?"

"Not unless you can bring back the dead," Emma said quietly. "Turn back time."

"That _is _beyond my talents, I am afraid. I do understand, though. I've always thought that if I lost Killian – that's my little brother – I wouldn't be able to go on." Liam hesitated, then shook his head. "Forgive me. You did not ask for me to burden you with my own troubles. But – "

Just then he stopped, frowning at Killian. The light was terrible, and the pirate had mostly covered his face, but Liam bent toward him, brow furrowed. In a very different, strange voice, he said, "Excuse me, but do I. . . do I know you?"

The pirate shook from head to toe, and Emma was possessed with an absurd urge to go to him, to take him in her arms and comfort him, but hastily dismissed it and remained where she was. In a faint, hoarse, cracking voice, Captain Hook whispered, "No. No, you don't."

"I thought. . ." Liam straightened up, still frowning. "It must have been a trick of the light. My pardons, again. You must think me terribly ungentlemanly. But I should be on my way – I need to find Killian, and I suppose think of a Christmas gift for him as well – "

"There," Hook croaked, pointing at the nutcracker in the shop window. "Buy him that."

"Ah. Yes, that would do. I don't have much experience at this." Liam smiled wryly, paused again, then said at last, "A very merry Christmas to you. To you both."

"And you," Emma answered, wondering as she did why she had. He was just a memory, long-dead, they probably shouldn't even be interacting with him anyway. But she couldn't help herself. It seemed impossible that this man should not exist, that he should be dust and ashes, when he was standing right in front of her, warm and sturdy and solid, breathing on his own. She felt the sibyl's terrible temptation to tell him the hour of his death, that barely two years from now he would be gone and his little brother transformed into a pirate, everything he had ever believed up in smoke. But if she did – if this was more than a memory, was some sort of window into the past – there was no way to know what she might change or destroy. _I can't. _She had thought that the weight, the grief of it, would not be hers, but it was. It was. "It was. . . it was nice to meet you."

Liam nodded graciously, doffed his hat to her, and started off. But then Killian called after him in a sudden, agonized burst of words, as if they had burned out of his very soul. "I love you. _I love you."_

Liam stopped short, understandably rather taken aback. He stared at the man in black for a long moment. Then he doffed his hat again, rather tersely, and strode away, not running but certainly at a pace that suggested he would prefer to put some distance between himself and the mentally unhinged gentleman. He stepped into the store, purchased the nutcracker, and then was away off the street, vanishing into the snow.

Killian's gaze remained fixed on him until long after he was out of sight, and Emma had the uneasy sense that she might have to physically prevent him from jumping up and following. She had as well the feeling that they had stayed far too long. The cheery Christmas scene now seemed to possess a tangible threat, shadows stealing over the candles and lights and quenching them, the buildings losing form and clarity, becoming distorted and grotesque. The bells no longer sounded sweet and clear, but harsh, discordant, sinister. "Hook," she said urgently, grabbing his shoulder and shaking it, as if to wake him from deep sleep. "Hook, we have to get out of here. _Now."_

He stared up at her with eyes heavy and hazy with pain, living through the agony of loss all over again. "Aye, lass. We should."

"Come on." Emma got on her knees, facing him. The skittering and rustling was getting louder and louder, and she caught sight of something that looked distinctly like the chimera statue that had been guarding the entrance to the vault – the one she had thought looked so ridiculous, with its bronze sinners and its bad case of the farts. _They are coming for us. _"Look at me. This is your memory. For us to get out of here, you have to let it go. It's the only way. You have to. Come on. Give it up. _Now!"_

He lifted hand and hook as if they were both made of lead, offering them to her, and she snatched them. He never took his eyes off her, watching her with the same searing intensity as he had watched his brother, and she could feel it to the heart. It made something deep and hot and powerful spark to life inside her, and she concentrated as hard as she could, throwing it out like a shimmering golden net. Just enough to get them out of here – just _enough –_

For a final moment more, she felt as if she was bashing on a massive, unyielding slab of glass with her fists, but could neither crack it nor even budge it. Then all at once it exploded, and the world went up in flames around them, the only real thing their anchorage to each other, as they were tossed and whirled and thrown down the maelstrom, falling and falling and falling. Then he was grabbing at her, pulling her into his body, and the next instant they crashed into a stone floor with bone-cracking force. He took most of the impact, not her, but they both lay there, choking and retching and gulping, sobbing for air, seeing stars, piled up and hopelessly entangled.

At long length, when she was finally satisfied that her lungs were not going to burst out of her chest, Emma sat up. They were in some dark, cramped undercroft, the ceiling not even high enough for them to stand – and for a stomach-lurching moment, she thought they had not escaped at all. Snowflakes were sifting lightly from the groins, speckling her face and hands with cool wintry kisses. But why on _earth – ?_

Her question was answered the very next instant. Footsteps echoed madly in the corridor outside, and then none other than Will Scarlet himself, an unfamiliar, ragged blonde woman in tow, burst in, saw them, and screeched to a halt so astonished that in any other circumstances it would have been quite comic, eyes bugging out as he windmilled his arms frantically. The blonde woman – who appeared to be making it snow – ran into him from the back, and they clutched each other and did a crazy little dance attempting to regain their balance. "What – who – "

"Who the hell is this?" said almost everyone else in the room.

"Long story," Will panted. "What in the – bloody _hell, _Jones, I thought – "

Hearing himself thus summoned, Killian rolled over painfully and pushed to his feet. "Well?" he barked at his sidekick. "Have you found it?"

Will blinked. "The – the whatsit? No, but – Killian, listen. It's the bloody statues chasing after us. The ones from the entrance to the vault. They're alive. And the golem isn't a bluff. It's real. If Jafar actually raises that thing, it's going to be hell and – "

Killian appeared to have latched onto only one part of this. "The statues," he repeated, an awful realization dawning on his face. "You said they're alive. And the magic of the _shem _animates things made from clay – or from stone."

"Mate, listen – "

"I know where it is." The pirate's eyes had gone feverish, almost opaque. "I know where the damn thing is!"

Will stared at him in horror and tried to say something, but then all four of them had to sprint to the far side of the chamber, and out into the longer, high-ceilinged tomb beyond, as the roof began to sway and shatter overhead. Ducking chunks of falling rock, coughing on the dust, they ran hell-for-leather toward the heavy wooden door at the far side – but never reached it. It burst into splinters, and the statues poured in like great living chesspieces, drawing stone swords and swinging stone fists, the chimera leading the charge. It did not look at all funny now. The floor shook and groaned under the blows of their massive footfalls, as they drew a tighter and tighter circle around the four intruders. Killian was grappling for his sword, but it would be no use against them. Nothing but –

At that moment, Emma and the other woman locked eyes. Acting on an unspoken agreement, they flung themselves forward and grabbed hands, feeling a mutual blaze of power surge through them. Glittering blades of ice and fountains of golden fire erupted from their clasped fingers like the manifestation of an archangel with a heavenly sword, scouring the chamber in uncontrollable waves of magic. As the men stood dumbly rooted to the spot, only able to await being reduced to pulp, the women channeled as much as they possibly could, until Emma felt turned inside out and about to be violently sick, her bones burning like red-hot iron and her teeth rattling in her skull like a gypsy's fortune-telling runes. Just as she felt that she had to let go or die, the madness cut out, sucked as if down an invisible drain, and she sank in what felt like slow motion to her knees. _I can't keep doing this. It's going to kill me. I can't. It's burning me away._

A thunderous, ringing silence reigned over the barrow. Killian and Will stood side by side with identical blank expressions of shock, hair smoking slightly. Then they said in perfect and heartfelt unison, "Bloody _hell."_

Breathing hard, the other woman glanced over at the captain. "Queen Elsa of Norway and Sweden," she said coolly. "Pleasure."

Killian's expression took on several further degrees of stupefaction, which was difficult, but he managed. Then Elsa turned away, surveying the motionless statues, all of which had been locked in place and varnished with a glittering silver-gold shell. She walked up to the chimera, reached into its mouth, and pulled out a thick, old roll of parchment, inscribed with cabbalistic symbols in something that could only be blood. "Here," she said. "Is this what you're looking for?"

"Aye." Killian seemed to come to, out of his trance. "Give it here, Your Highness."

Elsa paused, but then started slowly toward him, the precious _shem _in hand. And in the instant before she reached him, Emma had the overwhelming instinct to shout a warning – but it caught in her throat.

Fast as a snake, Captain Hook struck, ripping the _shem _out of her grasp and making it vanish into his jacket with the swiftest, most ruthless sleight of hand that could be imagined. Elsa started on the beginnings of a scream, but he pressed his thumb to a vein in her neck, and she collapsed as if she'd been hit over the head. It happened so quickly that neither Will nor Emma had any time to react, but the former recovered first. "Have you – _have you lost your goddamn bloody mind?!"_

"No." Hook stared at them down the two long, empty tunnels of his eyes, as he hoisted Elsa's limp body over his shoulder. "Come on. We're leaving."

"What – no. Killian, bloody hell, don't do this. Don't." Will was almost pleading. "For once, mate. You still can. Do the right thing, and – "

That, however, was the worst thing he could have said. "The right thing?" the pirate repeated, lip curling. "You mean the thing that whenever I _have _done it, has brutally and utterly fucked me over? Do you think I'm a bloody hero? I've just been reminded of how much I lost, how much has been stolen from me, and Jafar, whatever else he is or does, can give it back. So yes. I am delivering the queen and the _shem _to him, straightaway. As soon as we return to the boarding house and fetch my ring, call the _Roger, _we are going to Monaco."


	11. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

There was a very long, very horrible pause. Then Will stepped in front of the ruins of the door, crossed his arms, and said, "No."

Hook looked at him lividly. "I beg your pardon?"

"You bloody well heard me the first time." The young thief was not a tall man, but he drew himself up threateningly as Emma watched, still recovering her breath after the eventful past few minutes. "Now put her down, before I make you."

"Get out of my way, Scarlet."

"No. No, I don't ruddy well think I will. I'm not a piece of furniture that you can lug around when it suits you and throw in the rubbish tip when you get tired of it. I'm a person. So's she. So's both of 'em. We're people. All those folk across Europe who've never done a damn thing to you, who will more n' likely die if you give Jafar the ability to raise the golem, they're people too. Just because you're sad that somebody you loved bit the dust, everyone else has to bite it as well, eh? You filthy, arrogant, selfish, vile _git."_

The pirate recoiled as if the words had physically struck him, but the crack in his composure was gone almost at once. "What the hell do you know about this?"

"Oh, what do I know?" Will bellowed, finally provoked beyond all restraint. _"What do I know? _Well then. Let me tell you a few bloody things. My father was a drunkard, got run over by some fancy-arse gentleman's coach-and-six in Piccadilly, and while they were scrapin' him off the cobbles, all the gentleman was complainin' about was how 'those people' had the audacity to be out of the East End where they bloody well belonged. I don't remember it, I was four. What I do remember is my mum coughin' herself to death of consumption, doin' the laundry for rich folk and trying desperately not to get blood on the linens, otherwise they'd take it out of her wages. I knew she was gone when I woke up that morning in the dead of bloody winter and it was silent, there wasn't no coughing. Me and Penny weren't big enough to carry her out and see her decently done by, and we were terrified to besides, once the slum lords knew she'd snuffed it, they'd throw us out on the street. So I went to the neighbor-lads, and they took her and sold her to the damn spooks, the body-snatchers. God knows where she went, cut up on some doctor's table or summat. And you think we ever saw a ha'penny of that money? No! Bloody no!"

Hook opened his mouth, but Will bulled over him. "Then when we did get chucked out anyway, I was the only reason we didn't starve. There was plenty of pimps who said they'd take Penny to a house where she'd be well cared for, but I know what goes on in those places for men who like little girls, and over me own dead body was she endin' up there. So I pushed a costermonger's barrow for hours in the rain and wet, sold papers, worked as a chimney-lark because the sweeps hired boys to crawl down the flues and scrape out the soot 'til their fingers bled. But all of it was worth it because Penny thought I was the bloody best in the world, would be so delighted when I got to our shack with whatever pitiful bloody scraps I'd scavenged up for dinner. She'd eat them all up and cuddle close to me, and I'd tell her stories until she fell asleep, and we were happy, her and me."

Will's face was red, his chest heaving. "And guess bloody what? She died! She died too! Am I s'posed to run out and kill the Thames, you think that would bring her back? Then I met Ana and I thought we'd have a future together, I did everything in the damn world for her, and she stabbed me in the bloody back and run off with Grand Duke Shitski von Shitovich or whatever his bloody name was, and it hurt me until I wanted to take out me fuckin' heart to make the pain stop! But did you see me runnin' off to St. Petersburg to murder all the Russkies I could get my 'ands on? No! You – bloody – well – didn't!"

Emma, who had more or less regained her equilibrium by this point, got unsteadily to her feet, not sure whether she should intervene in the conflict and if so, where. She was repulsed, but not in the least surprised, by Hook's cavalier betrayal of Elsa, and if there was a small part of her that was hurt and disappointed by it as well, she quickly walled it safely away. Will seemed to be doing quite well giving the pirate a tongue-lashing – a brave thing to do, considering who this man was – and after a moment, she stepped to his side in silent solidarity. Saw Hook's eyes flash to her, briefly uncertain. "Lass – " he began.

"No. You don't get to talk right now." Will stalked forward, until he and the captain were almost nose to nose. "Don't you ever dare say again that I don't understand any of this. You know I liked you some, Jones, for all you were a bastard. Maybe more n' some. And I bloody well know you've got eyes for Miss Swan over there, and you're lashing out because you'd rather live in the damned past with all your dead ghosts, because you're a bloody coward. What'd Liam think of this, huh? Huh?"

"Don't talk to me about what Liam would have done. You never knew – "

"No. No, I didn't. And to reckon from the way you're carryin' on, I'm none so sure you really knew him either. Wasn't part of the reason you quit the bloody Navy after he died because you flat-out refused to kill all the Canadian rebels?"

Emma could tell that that had been intended to go for the jugular, and from the look on Hook's face, it had. Why did she still feel that tiny prickle of pity for him? Even after what he'd done and continued to do, ready to sacrifice everyone and everything as long as it made it stop hurting. . ._ not that you caused the Night Market to be completely brought down because all you cared about was protecting yourself, _a small, sarcastic, highly unwelcome voice whispered. . .

Emma swallowed hard, trying to force it away. _That was completely different, _she argued, but it rang false even in her own thoughts. Perhaps she recognized too much of herself in him, and that was terrifying. Easier to separate it out, condemn him, as his was the more obviously egregious crime. It _had _occurred to her that it was most certainly past Michaelmas, meaning past the deadline when she was supposed to report back to Gold with pirate in hand, and he knew about Henry too. . . a small, cold clutch of panic twisted her stomach. She still had her derringer, could draw it and drop Killian with a shot. But to do so here in Prague, in a city full of Gold's enemies. . . well, that was no terrible impediment, and Will would surely help her to get back to the ship; to judge from the way he was ripping the captain a new one, he wouldn't be sad either. . .

"So," Will himself was just finishing up. "You don't get some sort of bloody medal because you've lost people you loved. So did I, so did Miss Swan over there I'm sure, and Her Majesty was tellin' me that her sister's likely being held hostage by some wanker named Hans. It don't give you the right to shoot craps with the rest of our lives, Jones. And you're not gettin' out of here unless you're prepared to kill me too. Go on." He spread his arms. "Should be easy for you by now. Go for it. I don't care no more."

Hook looked very much as if he was seriously considering it, and Emma cringed, resisting the urge to cover her eyes, terrified that he was about to call Will's bluff. But after an eternal moment of tension hot and fierce and dangerous as a pair of rival stags challenging each other to a duel, the pirate glanced away, breaking the spell. "Damn you, Scarlet," he muttered.

"What was that? Sorry, only heard 'thank you very much for saving my idiotic, ungrateful arse from a mistake I wouldn't have lived long enough to regret.' Now bloody hell, put down the queen and let's get out of here before they send down something worse than Old Stoney and his mates."

Killian hesitated, then lowered Elsa to the floor. Her eyelashes fluttered, and she moaned; she was starting to come around. Will crouched over her as protectively as a mother bird on its nest, and offered her a hand. "All right there, Your Worship?"

She waved it off. "What – _happened?"_

"Probably exactly what you think, but you can turn 'im into a nice ice sculpture later, I promise. C'mon." Over her protests, Will got her to her feet, and Emma moved in on the other side to offer an arm as well; with a surprised look at her, Elsa took it. With the three of them thus arrayed, they fixed simultaneous evil glares on Killian, who sighed and threw up hand and hook in exasperation. Then with something uncomplimentary muttered under his breath, he turned and led the adventurers out through the ruins of the door and up the broad, steep stone stairs beyond. Emma devoutly hoped that there was not a magic trap here too, then considered that as the statues, animated by the magic of the _shem, _had come this way without being whisked off into a memory (did statues _have _memories? Could they talk, reveal what they had witnessed over the centuries?) it was likely safe enough. And indeed, they reached the top with no significant calamities, stepping out into the cathedral.

The sun was just coming up, throwing breathtakingly beautiful kaleidoscopes of color on the flagstones, the air streaming as gold as the aether had when Emma saved the _Roger _in midair. Several deacons were preparing the morning Mass, so they had to be extremely careful about their exit, skulking from cathedra to elegantly filigreed chancel screen, diving behind tombs, pretending to be statues, and otherwise assuming a rather slapstick air as they wove the demented obstacle course down to the door. They laid low in the sacristy, faces full of musty-smelling vestments, waited until the deacons had turned back to the altar, and then bolted.

It was all they could do not to sprint across the plaza, cobbles clean-washed by an earlier rain, and through the gate into the streets of Prague. It was coming to life as well, and Emma's mouth watered as they passed a stall packed with fragrant, flaky pastries just pulled from the oven. Glancing over his shoulder, Killian saw her expression, stopped, addressed the proprietor in stilted but serviceable Czech, and bought one for her. Then, seeing both Will and Elsa looking at it like starving pigeons about to converge on a single crumb, he heaved an utterly put-upon sigh and bought some for them as well. He himself took nothing, apparently intent on whatever new course of action he had decided on, and marched his munching cohorts, like a train of ducklings behind their mother, back to the boarding house.

Their landlady, carrying a laden breakfast tray down the hall, stopped and stared at them, clearly forming The Worst opinion of their moral character upon their return with a dirty, shivering woman in nothing but a torn nightdress, and immediately took Elsa under her wing with motherly clucks, throwing murderous looks at Will and Killian as she shepherded her away. Will looked affronted, and when she was out of earshot, muttered, "Oy. _I _didn't do nuffin' wrong."

Emma, feeling distinctly in need of some restoration herself, followed the women, both to correct the landlady's impression that they (or some of them) had been committing unspeakable depravities on Elsa, and to wash away the grime in more ways than one. Her fingers were quite sticky; the pastry had been delicious, but if Killian thought _that _was buying her off, he was in for a very rude surprise. So she rounded the corner into the brick back room by the kitchen, where the landlady had hung up sheets and was just helping Elsa into a large copper tub filled with steaming water. On seeing Emma, she went straightaway to fetch another tub, hauling heavy cauldrons to fill it as if they weighed nothing, then unlacing Emma's corset as she shucked the rest of her wet, filthy clothes and submerged herself with a groan of abject relief. _"Danke."_

The landlady nodded, then gathered up the clothes, which she scrubbed energetically on a washboard while Elsa and Emma soaked. Hanging them up above the stove, she bustled off and reappeared with new garments for Elsa: a plain, clean blue dress, much mended. _"__Es gehörte zu meiner Tochter,__"_ she said softly. _"_Gretel. _Sie sehen aus wie ihr."_

Elsa looked startled, then nodded back. She rinsed one last time, then stepped out into the waiting towel, leaving a thick murk of grime behind in the tub. Emma soon followed suit, and they sat dripping as the landlady combed their hair until it dried and did it up in matching intricate French plaits. All the while, she was muttering things that Emma did not quite understand, but the gist of it seemed to be that she would personally castrate Will and Killian with a kitchen knife if they so desired. The offer was deeply tempting, but Emma shook her head. "Er. . . _nein. _We are. . ." She looked at Elsa for help. "We are. . . _gut."_

The landlady made a sound indicative of extreme skepticism, but did not press the matter further, and helped them both get dressed, finding underthings, stockings, shoes, and a cloak for Elsa as well. When everything was finished, she led them out to the front room, where the men were slumped on the armchairs and trying desperately to avoid meeting each other's eye. At the sound of a throat being cleared like a cannon going off, however, they sprang upright as if shocks had been applied in twin to their behinds. "Ah, Frau Zimmer," Killian said, with a charming smile. _"Vielen Dank. Sie sehen sehr sch__ön."_

The landlady – Frau Zimmer, evidently – eyed him with deep disdain. _"Nicht für Sie, Schwein," _she remarked, apparently unworried about insulting Killian now that she had possession of a large quantity of his gold. _"Kümmern sich um diese Mädchen, oder ich werde dich töten."_

Killian raised an eyebrow and Elsa choked, leaving Will and Emma to look at each other in mutual incomprehension. Then the pirate rose gracefully to his feet, said, _"Aber ja, meine Dame," _and reached into his purse, handing her a few extra coins for good measure; she harrumphed, but bit them, accepted their veracity, and turned to go, as Elsa and Emma called their thanks after her. Then as the men gathered up their things – clearly they had retrieved them from the room while the women bathed – they stepped out into the streets, weaving back toward the quay where they had first arrived.

As they walked, Killian kept glancing from side to side. Clearly he wanted nothing more than to get out of Prague as soon as possible, and must feel like a marked man walking around with the _shem _in his pocket. He kept twisting the ring on his thumb, as he had evidently already summoned the _Roger, _but it was another two hours before the now-familiar shape of the flying pirate vessel appeared among the spires, navigating through the other sky and river traffic and coming in for a landing. Doubtless Elsa's presence had altered his original plans to travel by public airship – but where, Emma wondered? There was no way she was going to get on board again without a full explanation.

The same question, naturally, had occurred to Elsa. As the crew threw down the gangplank and Killian started toward it, she grabbed him by the sleeve. "And where exactly do you think you're taking us, pirate?"

Killian looked annoyed, but answered civilly. "As a matter of fact, Your Majesty, I was intending to fly north to your capital city of Christiana and return you to your home. I am certain the _Kongeriger _would find some concrete way to express its gratitude, aye?"

Elsa blinked, clearly taken off guard. Then she stiffly inclined her head. "Indeed, it would. Thank you, Captain. I may – I may have misjudged you."

"No, you didn't," Will Scarlet put in cynically. "Got him bang on the first time. C'mon then, you can have the captain's cabin. This git won't be needin' it."

Killian opened his mouth, shut it, and made a sarcastic bow and a flourish, offering Elsa one arm and Emma the other and escorting the ladies with grandiose courtesy to said cabin. He shut the door behind them and strode off, and the two women sat at the table, staring at their hands, until they heard the engines thrum to life and the _Roger _back out of its mooring. Then it picked up speed on the Vltava, faster and faster, finally launching into the air with a roar as all the thrusters fired and Prague fell away like a multi-colored checkerboard beneath them. Emma was startled to realize how accustomed she had become to the rhythms of the ship, knew it quite well from when she had strung it back together in the storm, and that sitting here in the cabin was quite familiar. She glanced at Elsa, wanting to talk but not knowing how to start, or if the other woman would welcome conversation. What would they discuss, anyway – their de facto abduction by Captain Hook and his infamous crew of scurvy brigands? It wasn't as if they should actually try to be friends. So Emma sat back, sat nothing, and finally, the weariness overtaking her, crawled onto the bed and let the steady hum and motion of the ship lull her to sleep.

She must have gone under very hard, because it was very late afternoon when she awoke. Elsa was curled up on the window seat in a pile of the spare cushions and quilts, and Emma felt obliquely guilty, thinking she should have offered the bed to the queen first. But it was liable to be several more hours to Christiana at minimum, and by the time they got there, sleeping arrangements would be the least of their –

Wait. Emma stopped, frowning. Something small but niggling had caught at her, and it was only now that she realized it. If they were flying north to Norway, the westering sun should be coming in through the port windows of the cabin. Instead, it was flooding the starboard side, painting a rich wash of gold on the clean-scrubbed floor and under her feet, the deck dipped gently, as if they were losing altitude, descending through the clouds. But no – they couldn't be nearly close enough – the wrong direction and –

A horrible, sickening suspicion filled Emma from head to heel, crystallizing into cold certainty in the next second. She scrambled across the cabin and shook Elsa, hard. "Wake up! Wake up now!"

Elsa blinked at her, sleepy and confused and clearly having no idea where she was. _"Hva? Hva er det?" _Remembering herself, she scrubbed a hand across her face and corrected, "What? What is it?"

"We're not going to Christiana," Emma said grimly. "Get up."

Elsa remained blank an instant longer, then flared with shock. Scrambling off the window, she ran across the room, Emma hard on her heels, undid the latch, and tore outside onto the deck. The rush of warm, moist air immediately provided the last nail in the coffin, as Emma looked at the horizon and saw the glittering cerulean-blue expanse of the Mediterranean Sea. Feeling like she had been stabbed, she and Elsa stared at each other a moment longer, then turned and barreled up the steps toward the helm, where Killian Jones saw them coming an instant too late. He started into something, but neither of them were, in the least, in the mood to swallow any more of his lies.

"You son of a _bitch!" _Elsa screamed. "We're going to Monaco after all. Aren't we. _Aren't we!"_

With their destination now clearly in sight, there was no denying it. The pirate captain paused, then nodded once.

Elsa went white to the lips. Without another word, she hauled off and slapped him.

Killian took the blow without attempting to avoid it, as if fully aware that he deserved it, and Elsa, apparently feeling that one was insufficient to express her opinion on the matter, loaded up for a second one, but this time he took his hand off the wheel and caught her wrist. "Your Majesty," he said quietly. "I do not expect you to believe this, nor do you have any reason to, but I have not come here with the intention of selling you to Jafar."

"You're damned right I don't!" The air was beginning to shimmer red around Elsa, fueled by her rage, and speleothems of ice sprouted from the deck in jagged spears and bergs. Doubtless her next move would have been to skewer Hook to the running board with them, but at that moment the imbroglio was made even better by the arrival of a panting, tousled Will Scarlet, who had also apparently been unsuspectingly catching up on his sleep in the crew's quarters. He took one look at the situation, the approaching harbor, and the overwrought Elsa, and having thus deduced all he needed to know, wound up and slugged Killian in the jaw.

"Fucking _hell!" _the captain roared, spitting blood. Apparently being hit in the face twice in two minutes was more than even he was prepared to endure in penance for his chicanery, and he turned an expression on them so wrathful that all three of them took an involuntary step backwards. Seeing the ruckus, the crew was starting up the steps to intervene, and then it really would devolve into a free-for-all. "Why don't you let me bloody _explain?"_

"Explain what?" Will snarled, planting himself protectively between the women and Hook. "If you think that any of us are ever takin' your word again about _anything – "_

"Shut up. Just shut up." Pale as a sheet and grim as granite, Killian took hold of the wheel again and continued to guide their descent. "If you carry on like this, the whole country will hear you – I'm not exaggerating, it's quite small – and then that would just be no good, would it?"

Will breathed through his nose like a grampus, clearly itching to finish what he had started and knock the bugger into next week, but for the moment, loathingly, he held off. They were flying quite low now, over the red-roofed medieval quarter of Monaco-Ville and the prince's palace on the high headland, gazing serenely out to sea. Palm trees stirred in the cool evening breeze, and steamships and airships alike lay docked at Port Hercules, where they were making with speed. In a few more minutes, Killian was steering them into berth, which they made with a splash, and looked at them with slitted blue eyes. "Stay here. And please, try not to do anything stupid."

"Oh, don't worry," Will growled. "Amount of stupid things you do, there's none left for the rest of us."

Killian started into a scathing retort, but once more, remarkably, bit his tongue. "Stay here," he repeated icily. "I'm going to see Jafar, by myself."

"And that makes me feel so much better. Off to sell us all for a bit of pocket lint and a pair of undershorts Gold might have owned once. If you think I'm fallin' for that, you – "

"_Shut up." _Killian rubbed two fingers at the apparently permanent crease between his dark brows. "I took a great risk coming here, I apologize for the necessity of lying to you, and I actually am trying my bloody damndest to keep you out of the way right now. It's my bargain with Jafar. I have to face the consequences, alone."

"I'll come with you," Emma said. "So I can make sure you don't – "

"No!" Killian snapped, with shocking vehemence. Seeing them staring, he modulated his tone. "No, lass. I'd rather not have you anywhere near him. He'll get what he's paid for, but only that, and it might not be so satisfying as he thinks. Now for the bloody love of God, go below and stay there until I get back. All of you."

Will, Emma, and Elsa exchanged deeply dubious glances. It went against every instinct in their bodies to let the captain out of their sight after the underhanded stunt he had just pulled, but none of them were eager for a pleasant conversation with Jafar. And Emma's ability to sense lies was telling her something too. This was perhaps not entirely the truth, but not all a deception either. Somehow, in his dangerous, dark, broken way, he was genuinely trying to keep them from harm.

"All right," she said abruptly, startling everyone. "Go. But if you aren't back by midnight, there's going to be hell to pay."

"Oh, I have no doubt, darling." Killian's mouth quirked wryly. They gazed at each other for a strange, delicate moment longer, both of them seeming to have difficulty breaking it, and then he turned away, pulling up the collar of his coat and strapping on his sword and several extra pistols. It was clear what kind of situation he thought he was walking into, and it made Emma's stomach lurch, unwelcomingly. It would be fine. He could more than handle himself, and anything he got, he probably deserved.

Still, though. That didn't stop her from watching, standing at the ship's rail, as his solitary black silhouette vanished into the crookback streets, into the twilight, and was gone.

* * *

Killian Jones walked briskly, but without haste or concern, as the harbor slanted away below him and he wound through the dimly gaslit lanes. Monaco was developing a certain reputation as the pleasure retreat of the moneyed aristocracy, and he had to dodge drunken dandies with untied silk cravats, fetching mademoiselles with necklines far lower than they could ever have gotten away with at home, and other idlers, louts, and a particularly persistent Italian who wanted him to invest in his very own Tuscan vineyard. Killian finally disposed of him with a few choice words about his mother (Italians and their mothers, there was _some _sort of complex there and he'd rather not know what) and carried on walking. Les Spélugues (or as Jafar had renamed it, Monte Carlo) lay on the eastern edge of the city, quite close to Port Hercules, and shortly thereafter, he entered the neighborhood.

It still bore traces of its previous rundown state, but it was clear that Jafar had been hard at work already, and was swiftly making it over, apparently by the simple expedient of throwing out all the previous tenants and burning their dilapidated dwellings to the ground. New edifices of marble and brick were rising in their place, and at the top of the hill, Killian could see the grandest of them all, a great baroque immensity sculpted of creamy stone, enclosed in scaffolding, the beginnings of a splendid plaza and two half-dug fountains laid out in a stately colonnade. The workers had all gone home, and the place was almost quiet, not the thriving hive of activity and noise it must be by day, and Killian stood surveying it for a long moment. Then he crossed himself, because that was the only thing to do when you were going down to visit the devil, and started to walk.

The first stars were coming out by the time he reached the half-built palace, which towered over him, silent and spectral. He briefly wondered what he would do if Jafar wasn't here, had retreated to one of the luxurious townhouses for the night, but then he caught sight of a small, glowing pinprick on the balcony above. It was immediately thereafter revealed to be the end of a cigar, as the tall silhouette of the sorcerer lifted it to his mouth and took a languid drag. "Welcome to Monaco, Captain."

Killian cocked his head. Yet again, Jafar had displayed not the slightest sign of surprise at his arrival, and that was troubling. Once could be coincidence, but two was a pattern, and he suddenly remembered what Jafar had told him back in Paris, that he'd had him watched, and in Prague, when he had known about Emma and Will. _How much _does _he know, exactly? _"Indeed. I have what you asked for."

"Indeed," Jafar said, perfectly mimicking his tone. "Well then, come up here and let me see."

Killian went around to the stairs and climbed to the broad promenade. Once he had reached him, Jafar carelessly flicked the embers from his cigar and raised a hand, leading Killian into the vast, incomplete interior of the casino. It was merely rough stone and sawdust and neatly stacked heaps of tools and matériel, but he could certainly see that when finished, furnished, decorated, and filled with fashionably dressed and exorbitantly wealthy gamblers ready to fritter away thousands of francs on cards and dice and drink, it would be quite a spectacle indeed. He might even play a round or two; he likewise had money to burn and no particular care for where it went, although if it was Jafar's pocket, that was rather counterproductive. "Marvelous," he said, voice echoing. "You have made remarkable progress."

"Why, thank you," Jafar answered, with elegantly faux modesty. "I have, of course, helped the process along here and there with my own small skills, and feel confident that we shall be ready to open by Christmas. What a wonderful time to celebrate with friends and family, is it not? Oh dear me. That was terribly insensitive. I do beg your pardons."

"Of course," Killian said through numb lips. He breathed deeply once and then twice, until he was sure that his voice would be steady. "Well, as I said. I have both the savant and the _shem_. They're on my ship, waiting to be handed over. I told them to stay there for their own protection, but it's so they don't get any foolish ideas about running off and requiring time to be wasted tracking them down."

"Clever. The principle of honey and vinegar and the proportion of flies caught with each, I see. Which savant?"

"Queen Elsa of Norway and Sweden, who else?"

"Ah. How industrious of you to bring her all the way here to me, if somewhat baffling, seeing as she was already safely in my custody." Jafar shrugged. "But doubtless you will have worked it out that my plans really do require _two _savants. Once I put Elsa to her purpose, she will no longer be useful as an object for my scientific study of the creatures. I shall need another, whole and unspoiled. Have your travels led you across such a one yet, Captain?"

"Perhaps. But in such a splendid house of gaming such as this will soon be, winnings don't come without risk, do they?" Killian removed his hand from his pocket, revealing a small black cube in his palm. "A wager on it. If it turns up skull, I will tell you everything you wish to know. If it turns up crossbones. . . I won't."

Jafar blinked, then smiled. "Brash, Captain. Quite brash. A character trait I do admire, believe me, but alas, I do not play with another man's loaded dice. I find your notion of a game of chance most delightful, however. This way."

With that, he strode across the floor to one of the alcoves, slightly more complete than the rest. Something was hanging on the wall that Killian recognized as a roulette wheel, the simplest of all betting sports – lay money on whether the ball would drop in red or black, or in a certain number or range. Play a run for as long as you dared, win as long as you were right, but if you guessed wrong, you lost everything. _So I had best guess right as well._

"Here," Jafar proclaimed proudly, as if he was about to unveil a long-lost da Vinci. "You are familiar with the rules, I surmise?"

"Aye. Though I'm unsure if yours are the same as the standard ones."

Once more, Jafar laughed, but there was unmistakably a dangerous glint in his eye. "Oh, almost the same, with the odd tweak to make it more intriguing. But before we begin, I must ask if you are fond of stories, Captain."

"Depends on what sort."

"Only a short one, and rather a sad one, I am afraid."

"A cautionary tale?"

"If you wish to call it that." Jafar paused, then began, "Once upon a time in a faraway land, there lived a small boy in a great and marvelous palace. For it belonged to the sultan, you see, and by a happy accident of fate, this small boy was the sultan's son, a prince of the realm. But through a second accident of fate as grievous as the first was happy, he was not born to the sultan's favorite wife, his crowned queen and mother of his heirs, but to a lowly concubine of the harem. Hence, illegitimate. Not that he ever understood what that word meant, or why it was so often thrown in his face, but children are so innocent of this world and its wicked ways. At any rate, the boy was unusually clever and gifted, and as he grew, the jealous sultana swiftly took notice of him, fearing that he would challenge her trueborn sons, his half-brothers, for the succession. Not an unfounded fear – fratricide being something of an imperial pastime, you understand," Jafar added apologetically, like a tour guide excusing away some barbarous local custom of the natives to suitably horrified civilized folk. "Therefore, something must be done."

"One night when the boy was seven, he was summoned to the sultan's private quarters. He was most excited, for he had always admired his splendid lordly father from afar, and thought that now he would finally make better acquaintance with him. And indeed, the sultan welcomed him in and was most gracious and kind, saying he had heard all about the boy from his tutors and was proud to call him son. Then he led him to a basin of water set by the window, and said that a great soothsayer had bid him to look into it, to scry what majestic destiny awaited the boy. Nothing else would do, of course, but that the boy look too. So in all eagerness, he did so. Climbed up and gazed down into the water. Only for the sultan to grab the back of his neck, force him into it, and make an utmost effort to drown him like a dog."

Killian looked sharply at the sorcerer, but Jafar's face had not changed in the least. Calmly he continued, "It was only luck that prevented the sultan from accomplishing this terrible deed. Some fortuitous distraction, and the boy was judged to be well enough dead and thrown out into the streets. But he was _not _dead at all, and he survived, and he remembered. And after a time, he was taken notice of by those of far more use to him, and shown the error of his illusions about good and evil, about magic and power, and the very structure of the universe itself. So you see. It was only chance that he was saved, that he lived and did not die, and became what he was and is. Such a stake for a cosmic wager, _n'est-ce pas? _And with such results. It seems only fitting that we now make the same wager, with the same stakes, once again."

"Oh?" Killian's voice was as cool as Jafar's. "My life on the turn of that roulette wheel, is it?"

"Not in the least. You remain extremely valuable to me, and hence there is no point and purpose in discarding you. No. The life I propose to wager is rather different. Miss Emma Swan's."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Miss Emma Swan's," Jafar repeated, like a schoolmaster for the benefit of a depressingly dense pupil. "Truthfully, Captain, I am surprised it had to come to this. Why so much care for the hand and servant of your enemy?"

"I – beg – your – pardon?"

"You didn't know? Well, I suppose you must not have, considering how libertine you have been sharing information and I daresay, affection with the lady. But she was hired by Robert Gold – your mortal foe, surely I don't have to remind you of that as well – for the sole purpose of hunting you down and delivering you to the Royal Society's clutches. Granted, she's making rather a botch of it thus far, for which the incidental charms of your person must be blamed, but I'm quite sure she'll soon get round to it. Oh, that reminds me. I have recently acquired a singular curiosity, a wardrobe made of enchanted wood, which purports to be able to transport the user to various, shall we say, _otherwheres. _I could end up somewhere as fantastic as Scheherazade's lost City of Brass, or somewhere as mundane as Yorkshire, who knows?" Jafar made a dismissive little gesture. "Though I am sure that even Yorkshire has its attractions."

"None that I can think of. Well, we know what you wish to wager. What about what I wish to?"

"Ah, Captain. I am terribly sorry, but that is the place where my rules deviate from the norm. The game is already set, the pieces in motion, and all we need is your call. We shall keep this simple." Jafar made another gesture, and the roulette wheel began to spin of its own accord. "Red or black?"

Killian looked at him with a bored expression. "Black."

"The call is in for black," Jafar announced, for the benefit of their imaginary audience. "Shall it. . . shall it be. . . how very tense, how very. . . and oh my! Surely everyone breathes a sigh of great relief as the pirate takes the first round – we shall, of course, play six, in honor of the popular version of this game employing a pistol loaded with five blank cartridges and one live one. Black it is. Have you a second call, Captain?"

"Black."

"Ah. Riding the hot hand, I see." Jafar set the wheel spinning again. "We wait and wait, clutching at our pearls. . . and indeed, black it is again. Two rounds in the books. Can Miss Swan survive another four? Such pathos and intrigue! The nation has not hung so breathlessly in the balance since it awaited news from Waterloo. And for the third call, we turn once more to our only player. Monsieur Jones. . .?"

"Black."

"For a third time?" Jafar arched an eyebrow. "So be it. The call for black is in, and it spins – and spins – _oh, _near miss with red there, very near miss – shall this alarm Monsieur Jones into altering his wager? It does not, and. . . black. Halfway through. The stakes mount. For your fourth call, good sir?"

"Black."

"A most perilous strategy here." Jafar rubbed his chin. "But one sticks with the horse that is winning the race, so to speak. The call is in, the wheel spins and spins, we wait tensely upon its fall. . . and for the fourth time, Monsieur Jones makes it through. Two more. Two more. And your call?"

"Black."

"For the fifth time. This is quite shocking. But of course, the punter's wishes must be respected, and hence. . . away we go, and the ball whirls like a dervish, and we hold our breath in tremulous anticipation – and by Jove, it falls black _again! _So, the sixth and final round. Monsieur?"

Killian stared straight into the sorcerer's serpentine eyes. "Black."

"Going for broke?" But this time Jafar did not start the wheel. "Have you heard," he enquired, "of something called the gambler's fallacy? By rights, you should have called red by now, because by the fallacy's operation, you think that it is more likely to fall red because it has now fallen black five times in a row. This hinges on the idea that past events have any ability to influence future ones. But indeed, each time the ball falls, it could just as likely be either red or black, regardless of previous results. So if we applied this logic to a real-world situation, a person might think, for example, that he is more likely to succeed at revenge this time because he has failed in all previous attempts. But he is not. He has equal chance of success or failure. He has no cumulative luck built in, starts from absolute scratch each time. Depressing, isn't it? Now, monsieur. You still have time to change your bet. It is not too late. Red – or black?"

Killian smiled twistedly. "Black."

"I have tried my best," Jafar assured the invisible patrons. "But he is sticking with the call, and one last time, the wheel glides into motion. The ball dances wildly. Such spectacle, such stirring emotion. Is it life we are witnessing here, or death? Or – _ah."_

For then, one last time, the ball fell.


	12. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

Despite her utter and absolute conviction that coming here had been a terrible idea, and the pirate lying to them about it had been an even worse one, Emma could not deny that the sunrise over Monaco was a spellbinding sight, bathing the steep shoulders of the city and its glittering cauldron of sea in a fragile rose-gold radiance. There was plenty of magic woven into its making, come to that. With France's draconian policies on practical magic being well known, all those who could not content themselves with theoretical research into strictly controlled and approved topics had fled here to Monaco, which was no less Catholic but much more willing to turn a blind eye to their presence, so long as they spent plenty of money. It was not quite so accepted as to be practiced or studied openly, but the expatriate French magicians got their haven and the principality got their protection and generous patronage, and thus far nobody had appeared in any rush to upset the apple-cart. Wealthy guests were also willing to pay lavishly for the magicians to craft them their own custom fantasy adventures – explore the lost depths of Atlantis, fly a Persian carpet through the night sky, ride with cowboys and red Indians in the American Wild West, and much more. Emma thought, however, that if she ever had the money to spend on such an extravagance, her own request would be much simpler. _Make me a home. Make me a place with parents who loved me and didn't leave me, with my son, somewhere we were all happy and safe and together. _That was the greatest fantasy of all.

She leaned on the rail of the _Roger, _eyes gritty, sleepless and uneasy. She had swiftly gotten tired of being cooped up in the stuffy cabin with a fuming Elsa and a muttering Will, and wandered the ship from stem to stern until the crew asked if she needed anything, in a tone that heavily implied she was getting in their bloody way left and right and could she please get out of it now, thanks. Thereafter she had confined herself to her present location near the bow, eyes flicking up every few minutes to see if Hook was in sight yet. Midnight, she'd _told _him to be back by midnight, and he had seemed sincere in promising that he would. But as she had already learned, that was the maddening thing about him, shiftless as sand, changing loyalties here and there as he pleased. Not that she would ever trust him, not that he had any reason to trust her. . . he'd sold them to Jafar and booked it, he must have, but then why leave his beloved ship behind, with crew and cargo and precious prisoners still aboard? It didn't make any sense, even for someone as relentlessly self-interested as him. Unless. . .

Emma's thoughts had whirled in this demented spiral all night, and she was making no more progress than the last forty go-rounds, when she looked up and with a sharp stab of something too raw to be called relief, she saw the pirate captain descending the harbor stairs toward the ship. He looked pale and disheveled and unhappy, face set and cold, but not seriously injured, and she went quickly to the gangplank to lower it for him. He climbed it, glanced at her sidelong, and seemed about to make past her without another word, but she caught his arm. "Hook. You're late and you damn well better tell me why."

His lip curled in something that was not in the least a smile. "Must I, darling? Speaking of things to tell one another, when were _you _planning to tell me that you work for Robert Gold?"

Emma's stomach turned over. "Who said that?" she asked, as evenly as she could.

"Jafar. And no, I actually do not believe that he was lying. Unless you want to claim that he was? Go ahead, love. I'll wait."

Emma hesitated, agonized. Her first instinct, of course, had been to dismiss it and disguise it, but something caught in her throat. They were standing very close, their eyes locked, the hurt on his face with enough of a physical presence that she could feel it as if it had reached out and punched her in the chest. "No. No, he wasn't lying."

Killian Jones blew out a slow, ragged breath. "Of course," he said, half to himself. "So then. Why haven't you just put me down like a bloody animal with that little pearl handgun you so enjoy fondling? You've had ample opportunity. Why?"

"Gold – wants you alive."

"Oh, I don't doubt he does. Yet even that does not seem to explain your reticence." He moved closer, until their noses were touching, his words soft puffs of breath against her lips. "Or no, is the Black Swan going _soft?"_

"No," Emma said tightly. She was having trouble thinking of anything more. Her entire body wanted to be pressed into him, draw them together like falling stars, crash and collide, _burn, _and the intensity of the desire terrified her. To judge from his own hitching breathing and the faint, deep shudder she could feel in him where he touched her, he was fighting the same impulse with all his might. She had a sudden flash of what it might look like if the crew was to come out and find them up against the bulkhead, her skirts hiked around her thighs, his hook embedded in the wall behind her head, bodies entangled, the way she'd bite him like a vixen as he thrust. . . and then it disappeared, leaving her gasping. She had no romantic illusions about this man, no girlish fantasies about being carried off and ravished by a tall, dark, and (very) handsome pirate. But this was raw, wet, carnal, beyond even need or lust, and she still couldn't breathe.

"You know what I think, darling?" Hook whispered, his hot mouth almost, but not quite, touching the too-sensitive skin of her throat. "I think you really don't want to kill me or turn me in at all, no matter how much you try to convince yourself otherwise, and hence you are scrambling for a reason, any reason, not to. On the same accord, I'm not that eager to turn you over to Jafar either. Why are the two of us running such risks, I wonder? Wouldn't it be far simpler to do what we have been paid to, and by all rights should very much want to, and betray each other? Show you mine if you show me yours, love."

Emma gulped an inadequate amount of air, her fingers combing through the sweaty dark hair at the nape of his neck; they had gotten turned around somehow so she was almost in his arms, his hook resting on the small of her back, their gazes still doing indecent things to each other. There was a thin scar on his right cheek that she very much wanted to kiss, and then maybe teach him a firm lesson, put that ridiculously small bed to better use. _Just once. _But if she did it, if she ever let him any further inside, she'd never be able to do what she still had to, and she refused to shoot herself in the foot like that. But as a challenge, with him smirking at her like that, the gauntlet thrown between them, waiting. . .

"Please," she said. "You couldn't handle it."

"Oh no. Perhaps _you're _the one who couldn't handle it."

Emma eyed him a moment more. And then, with absolutely no further preliminaries, she grabbed the lapels of the pirate's leather jacket, jerked him in, and kissed him senseless. He uttered a small grunt in the back of his throat as his ringed hand came up to tangle in her hair, hers still wrapped around his head, as they turned and swayed and went after each other again even more passionately, his tongue teasing her lips briefly, his mouth open, eyes closed, as she leaned in, devouring him. It would have immediately exploded into something far more consuming, could have led them posthaste to the nearest flat or even vertical surface, but she refused to let it. With the greatest effort of her life, she pulled away from him a fraction, still sharing breath, as he stared back at her with a wrecked, stunned, disbelieving expression on his face. "That was. . ."

"A one-time thing," Emma gasped. Her knees were not as steady as she would have liked. "That's all. So don't think – "

At that moment, slow, sardonic applause came from the cabin door behind them, and she whirled around, badly startled. "Sorry," Will Scarlet drawled. "We interruptin' anything?"

Killian's hand had drifted up to touch his lips, almost as he wanted to keep the taste of her burned into him, but at this, he seemed to surface from his trance. "You," he said, sounding more resigned than angry. "Of course."

"Surprise." Will sauntered onto the deck, and Elsa edged out behind him. "How'd your special night with Jafar go, eh?"

Killian grimaced horribly. "We – arrived at an agreement," he said, after a very long moment. Speaking normally seemed to be a tremendous struggle, his eyes still fixed on Emma. "The details of which are none of your business. We'll be staying in Monaco until it is seen through, then at which time – "

"Bloody hell. None of our business? What, you just handed the damn thing over and now – "

"Someone. Please. Shut him up." Killian spread his arms in a gesture of deep appeal to the universe. "I don't suppose you would believe me if I told you that this involved neither handing over the _shem _nor Queen Elsa?"

Will's eyes narrowed. "What'd you bargain, then?"

"As I said. None of your business. Now, _if _you'll excuse me, I'm bloody exhausted and I haven't slept since Prague. Try not to attract any more calamities for a few hours at least – especially you, Scarlet." And with that, coat flaring behind him, he turned and stormed across the deck to his cabin, slamming the door so hard that the timbers beneath their feet shook.

Will sighed. "Arsehole," he muttered, though without much heat. He glanced over at Emma. "What d'you think? Kill him in his sleep, or take his word for it?"

"I – don't know." She'd been trying to read the pirate, but her lie detector was going as haywire as her still-racing heart. She couldn't detach herself from him enough to assess him impartially, and no matter how much she dug her fingernails into her palms, she couldn't balance out again. "He did come back, but. . ."

"Well, I'm not taking no bloody chances." Beckoning both Emma and Elsa closer, Will lowered his voice, steered them into a hidden corner by the gunwale, then pulled the thick roll of blood-etched parchment from his sleeve. "Nicked this while the Captain was out. The pair of you were able to take down all the statues powered by this thing. If you joined forces again, you could likely destroy it as well, eh?"

The women exchanged a startled look, then turned back to the _shem _in Will's hand. It was a terrible temptation, but also a terribly dangerous one. Emma wasn't sure she could survive one more expenditure of raw, burning magical energy, untrained and uncontrolled, and Elsa looked queasy at the prospect as well. "Mr. Scarlet," she began, "you can't think – "

"Bloody hell. Call me Will. And I know it's a risk, but is it any more than leavin' it here, when Jafar could pop by and pinch it anytime he liked?"

"I'll. . . I can try," Elsa said doubtfully. "I'm not sure, but. . ."

"Aye, then, give it a go," Will encouraged, putting the _shem _gingerly on the deck and stepping back. "Quick, before anyone comes to see what we're doin'. You ready?"

Pale but composed, Elsa nodded.

"Right then. On three. One – Miss Swan, step back a bit, don't want to skewer you by accident, the Captain would have me 'ead – two – _THREE!"_

Elsa took a deep breath, flung out her hands, and both Will and Emma ducked and covered as jagged, yard-long icy blades began to hurl down from the warm, clear morning, slicing into the deck and the _shem _in crashing, crystalline splinters. Emma shot a nervous look at the cabin door, expecting Killian to come bursting through in apoplectic fury to put a stop to it, but even if he had been so disposed, Elsa whirled and shot a huge icicle through the latch, effectively barring him inside. Gritting her teeth, she continued to assault the _shem _with frozen blasts, until unexpectedly, she staggered backwards, gasping, and caught herself on the hatch cover, her face a nasty shade of grey. "I. . ." she choked. "I can't."

Will and Emma hurried over, Will to her side while Emma bent to pick up the _shem. _An ugly, uneasy, malevolent feeling crawled across her skin, and she had to resist the urge to fling it away. It was tattered and torn, smoking slightly, but she didn't know if it was enough to put it out of commission. She turned to anxiously survey the harbor, but amazingly, their miniature ice storm had attracted no attention from the other ships. Then again, this was Monaco, where the well-heeled and eccentric could have anything they wanted. The temperature on the _Roger _had dropped thirty degrees in a matter of moments, enough to see their breath varnishing silver in the air, and snowflakes were drifting from the rigging; doubtless their neighbors thought they were creating their own personal winter wonderland. At least that was once less concern, as she turned back to the other two. "What happened? Was it – the thing?"

"I don't know." Elsa wiped her mouth. "But I thought of something. When Jafar's men captured me, they drugged me with something, some kind of serum. I was supposed to be knocked unconscious, but I wasn't entirely, and I heard them talking about how it was intended to temporarily deaden my magic, so they could take me down into the vault without setting off the traps. Also making it so that I couldn't fight back, I presume. But it wore off while I was down there, I can do magic again, but every time I do, I feel – " She ran a shaking hand through her hair. "I thought it was just a side effect of being imprisoned, but now I'm not so sure."

"So you think," Emma said levelly, "that it might be poisoning you?"

Elsa did not answer, but her silence made it clear that this was exactly what she thought, and Will swore. "Damn it, if I'd known, I wouldnta – "

"There was no way for you to know," Elsa said. "Not even me, until now."

"But. . . wait." Will's frown deepened. "Too many things aren't addin' up here. Jafar's minions took you into the vault, but the whole time, the _shem _wasn't even in there anyway – it was in the chimera's mouth. And Jafar couldn't get it himself, I s'pose that much _was _true or we'd be flattened already, but he had to know where it actually was. So he lied to the Captain and sent him down there anyway, with me and you, Emma, and you an' the captain got nabbed, but you came back. You didn't stay there in dreamland, you undid the spell and hence the magical trap, and we also took the _shem _and disabled the statues guardin' the place. So. . ."

Elsa and Emma stared at him, as Emma was the first to grasp the implications. "So we destroyed all the magical defenses that were preventing Jafar from going down there and sacrificing Elsa and raising the golem – which he would do after we had given him the _shem_. And all the other old magic hidden in the vaults too. . . he can get it now. All of it."

"Aye," Will said grimly. "And now we're just sittin' here in the harbor with exactly the two things he needs, and Elsa's poisoned so she can't do magic, and you can't do it because you have no idea how and it might kill you. How are we supposed to fight him off if he comes? Rocks and sticks?"

"I'll do it," Elsa said bravely. "I'm not falling into his hands again. If he thinks he can stop me from being who I am. . ."

"No, love. You don't have to kill yourself just because the Captain is a walking arse-trumpet of failure. Speakin' of which. . . he's asleep, and locked in his cabin even if he isn't. We could commandeer the ship right now, fly away as far and fast as we can go. . . All in favor?" Will raised his hand, glanced around, then muttered, "Don't everyone volunteer at once."

"It's too risky," Emma said. "We don't know what sort of traps there would be, if we could find a safe port, or – "

"We're talkin' about the most bloody terrifying bloke in the universe havin' free access to everything he needs to put us off our tea for good, and you think stealing a ship from a pirate who's still likely going to sell us out whenever he gets the chance is _too risky?" _Will stared at her incredulously. "Is there something I'm missin' here?"

"I have an idea," Elsa broke in. "If I can get ashore, there must be a telegraph office somewhere. Give me five minutes, and I can wire home to Christiana, telling them where I am, that it's an emergency, and they need to send the _Kongeriger _military immediately. By express airship, they could be here within a day."

Will scratched his chin. "S'pose that's the benefit of havin' a queen on your side," he admitted. "But if it looked as if Norway was invadin' Monaco unprovoked, the French wouldn't be too chuffed, and that would get the British involved, and then you know we'd all go bang-whoopee straight off to – "

Elsa gave him a dirty look. "Not everyone is so utterly lacking in tact as you, Mr. Scarlet. It would be a _clandestine _operation."

Will was wounded._ "_Oy. I have _some _tact. I know never to say yes when a woman asks does this dress make her look fat, and I always say scuse me when I f – "

"Never mind," Elsa said, exasperated. "The point is that I can get them in here to rescue us, or at least provide covering fire, and the emergency code is disguised as a routine transmission, Hans won't recognize it. We just need to get me onshore, and fast."

It was reluctantly decided that this was their best plan (although Will was still in favor of pirating the pirate ship) and they hurried about it, knowing they had only limited time without Killian's interference. Will disappeared down the hold and returned with an armload of ladies' clothing (though he indignantly denied dressing up in them during his off hours) and Elsa quickly changed and made herself presentable. Here, however, was encountered a difficulty. A respectable woman would not be gallivanting around in public without an escort, and it was too dangerous to send Elsa alone anyway, just in case. Will looked at Emma, at himself, then back at Emma, and announced, "Well, if the Captain does wake up, one of us will have to distract him, and it bloody well isn't going to be me. So, love, of the two of us, looks like you're the one for the job."

Both women opened their mouths in outrage, then slowly shut them with martyred expressions. Will went down into the hold again and came strutting back in silk cravat, smoking jacket, and bowler hat. "Well? How do I look?"

Elsa eyed him dubiously from head to toe, then sighed deeply. "Please keep your mouth shut the entire time. It's the only possible way you can pass as a gentleman."

"Fine," Will grumbled, stepping forward and offering her his arm, which she took with two fingers, then glancing back at Emma. "Should be there and back, assumin' nothing goes sideways, in an hour or so. Just make sure the Captain, if he's disposed to cause trouble, stays busy until then."

Emma raised an eyebrow. "How?" she asked dryly.

"Well, as to that – " Will ducked as Elsa snapped her parasol open directly over his head – "I saw the two of you snoggin' each other's faces off. I'm sure you'll think of something."

And with that, while she was still slack-jawed and groping for an answer, he departed.

* * *

The broad promenade along the waterfront was lined with tall palm trees, elegant lampposts, and all manner of vendors hawking the same sort of twopenny rubbish found in any other venue catering to bored holiday-makers with money to burn. It was a lovely sight to be sure, but Elsa's nerves were already frayed, not least from the young peacocks racing their cabriolets and nearly killing innocent bystanders left and right, and were certainly not helped by Will's habit of turning to her and loudly exclaiming, "It's a bloomin' marvelous day for a stroll, isn't it, love?" whenever anyone glanced in their direction. Clearly, he was taking the order for them to pose as an ordinary couple far too literally.

After the fourth or fifth repetition of this exercise, Elsa lost patience and whacked him with her parasol. "Stop it!" she hissed. "We're supposed to blend in! You are as inconspicuous as a heart attack!"

"What? I'm just tryin' to – "

"I _told _you to keep your mouth shut. Just walk, look casual, and. . . don't say anything."

"Like this?" Will put on a giant, nauseatingly false smile and waved amiably at a passing governess with her young charges. She looked deeply alarmed and scuttled away, the children chugging confusedly in her wake.

"No, _not _like that," Elsa moaned, hauling on his arm. "You are _terrible _at this."

Will looked miffed, but obeyed. Yet they hadn't gotten more than a dozen feet when they were waylaid by two fetching blonde damsels in flowered hats and lacy dresses, who had heard his accent and breathlessly wanted to know if he was _English. _Upon finding that he was, they made him say "potato" five times straight, which he did most happily as they swooned and fluttered their fans. They were from America, of course, their father being some sort of railroad magnate in Chicago, and Will looked intrigued and asked was there a lot of money in railroads, did they think? If their answer had been yes, doubtless he would have dropped to a knee and proposed marriage on the spot, but sadly, they never found out. Elsa grabbed his arm, said pointedly, "We're very late for morning tea, aren't we, _darling?" _and frog-marched him off, the damsels still sighing rapturously behind them.

"What?" Will protested. "I was just bein' sociable! Or was it you were jealous of our tuber-lovin' friends?"

Elsa snorted. "Even if I was disposed to be jealous on your behalf," she said with great dignity, "which I assure you I am not, it certainly wouldn't be over twits like those. Now, with the way you're holding us up, it will be a miracle if we find this bloody place before dark."

"Oh, bloody, is it?" Will glanced at her appreciatively. "I'm havin' a bad influence on you."

"You don't say," Elsa muttered, picking up their speed apace as they climbed into the shopping district: greengrocers and butchers and vintners and fine clothiers, jewelers and milliners and glassblowers and leatherworkers, porcelain and tea and other luxury goods, clockwork makers, fortune-tellers, chemists and apothecaries and a loud little man on a soapbox extolling the virtues of the new casino soon to open at Monte Carlo. Elsa felt a shiver pass through her at that, and sped up still further, Will almost jogging to keep up, until at last she spotted a post office at the end of the lane, and ducked in. As she had hoped, there was a small telegraph machine manned by an ink-stained, overworked clerk who had used too much Macassar oil in his hair, and drawing on years of royal poise and decorum, she donned her public smile and stepped forward. "Bonjour, monsieur. I would like to send a wire, please."

"That will be two francs, madame."

Elsa hesitated. She hadn't thought about money; she never had to. She had an exchequer and a secretary and an office to manage her finances, and had not touched a piece of actual currency in years. But just as she was trying to think what to do, Will stepped up and tossed a pair of coins onto the counter. "There you go, mate. Try not to spend it all in one place, eh?"

The clerk, who clearly did not understand much English, accepted them bewilderedly, eyes flicking to Elsa as if to ask how on earth a lovely mademoiselle such as herself had become attached to such an _imb__écile _as that. But he dutifully rolled a card into the stenograph and pushed up his pince-nez, prepared to take dictation. "And where are you wanting to send this to, madame?"

"Norway," Elsa said, as casually as she could. "Christiana."

"Christiana?" The clerk frowned. "Oh, _non, _madame. I am afraid that is not possible."

Elsa's heart skipped a beat. "Why?"

"Why, have you not heard? The news is most sensational, on the front page of every paper. The queen is – she has gone missing, and the acting regent forbids any incoming or outgoing wires until the crisis has ended."

"Really?" Elsa said. "I had no idea."

"Oui. _C'est très horrible__. _But – "

"If you sent it, it would still reach Christiana, wouldn't it?"

"Well – yes, madame, but I cannot do that! My telegraph signal would be traced, and I would suffer the most fearful – "

Elsa had heard enough. Glancing over her shoulder, she caught Will's eye, and he somehow understood exactly what she needed. He sighed, cracked his knuckles, then assumed an expression of bug-eyed shock, yelled, "OY! WHAT'S THAT BEHIND YOU?" and as the clerk spun around to look, grabbed him by the shoulder and cold-cocked him with one neat punch. He hoisted the man out of the booth like a sack of oats and set him among a pile of parcels out of sight of the window. "Go on, then. Hurry up."

"I cannot believe that worked," Elsa gasped, scurrying behind the desk and taking the recently vacated seat, fingers flying over the worn bronze keys. She had practiced doing this a thousand times, always thinking that she was never going to actually need it, and was never more grateful to be wrong. As Will kept a vigilant eye on their still-out prisoner, she entered in the coordinates for the main telegraph office in Christiana – safer to use that one, since Hans was undoubtedly monitoring the private palace one – and wrote below, _Don't forget to send presents to Mum STOP Remember it's her birthday tomorrow STOP Love from Monaco STOP_. With that, she hit the last keys and sent it clicking and chattering into the innards of the machine, and leaned back, feeling as if all her wind had been knocked out. "There. I don't know what will come of it, but it's done."

"Peachy," Will said, as she clambered out of the cramped booth. "Right then, let's get out of – "

Elsa was fully of the intention to do so, but at that moment she heard moaning behind them, whirled, and saw to her horror that the clerk was waking up. If he did, he would send for the gendarmerie immediately, and that would just be no good at all; she was in no doubt as to who they actually worked for. Put like that, the choice was clear. She whipped off one heeled boot and dotted him smartly on the head with it, and the noise subsided immediately.

"Bloody hell," Will said, deeply impressed, as she hopped back into it. "You're my sort of princess, you know that?"

"Queen," Elsa corrected, somewhat too sharply – in part to disguise the odd rush of pleasure she felt at his praise. He was nothing, nobody, a lowborn criminal from the London streets, whom bad luck alone had forced her to work with. But she couldn't deny that after a life thus far spent in the airless diplomatic drawing rooms of Europe, saying one thing and meaning another, wary of spies in the household, dressing up and painting and posing and waving to the crowds safely isolated outside her carriage and palace, his uncompromising, plainspoken bluntness was – surely _refreshing _was not the word for it, given how irksome he was. But if nothing else, you'd know that he was never lying to you, and that was utterly unheard of in her world. That was different. That was something.

Will was looking at her expectantly, and she jumped and shook herself out of her reverie – no good wasting what extra time she had bought by daydreaming. She took his arm, they glanced around to be as sure as possible that they had not been observed, and vanished, like two starfish swept out to sea, in the tidal wave of the crowd.

* * *

Emma had been standing at the door of the captain's cabin, waiting to run interference on any potential investigation on his part, for quite some time now, but there still hadn't been a peep from within. She did her best to look innocuous every time a crewmember came by, as if she had just happened to find herself here, but when Smee trotted past for the third time and informed her that Will Scarlet and the queen had gone mysteriously walkabout, and it was his duty to tell the Captain straightaway, she gasped, looked shocked, and promised that she would see to it. With that, Smee still heartily confused, Emma dove through the door and shut it behind her, Elsa's incarcerating icicle having mostly melted by now. Then she turned around warily, not sure what see, or what the pirate would make of her abrupt intrusion of his inner sanctum, especially after what had happened earlier. Would he think she was coming to finish the job, or –

Rather quickly, however, Emma saw the reason why he had neither heard any of their attempted destruction of the _shem, _nor their plotting, nor even her bursting in on him. He was absolutely blackout, three sheets to the wind, skunk-faced drunk, sprawled out on the bed with an empty rum flask in hand, a few neglected golden droplets trickling out of its mouth. The smell was so overpowering that Emma felt faintly inebriated just by breathing the air, and while he wasn't entirely unconscious, he was nowhere near the waking world either. He groaned, arm flung over his face, then finally slurred, "There's more in tha' cabinet. Gimme another 'un."

Emma paused, then crossed to the bed instead, perching on the end and looking down at him. "I think you've had quite enough already."

His eyes were mostly rolled back in his head, but he still managed to use them to convey an expression of deep irritation. "Bloody hell. Wha' are you, my fu-fucking mother? Still awake – don' wanna be – for another few days or so."

She wasn't entirely sure if he recognized her or not, or he thought she was just another of the faceless women he'd brought aboard, to tend to his needs, be paid handsomely for the service, and then dismissed again, and had to push away a bizarre spasm of jealousy. She reached down and yanked the rum bottle out of his hand; he groped at it but couldn't find it again, and with another muttered curse, sank back onto the covers. "J-just go. Don' have to – see me like this. No. . . concern of yours."

"I'll decide that," Emma said coolly. "Hook, what the hell happened with Jafar? I'm not an idiot. You didn't decide to drink yourself into oblivion by accident."

He flashed her a twisted smile. "Nothing."

"Oh, I believe that. Or wait, no. I don't." Emma dug her fingers into his shoulder, trying to make him focus on her. "You're already putting us in enough danger, just – just tell us, all right. Maybe – " she almost bit her tongue on the words, but they burst out anyway – "maybe we can help."

The captain barked an utterly cynical laugh. "I don' bloody think so. 'Specially not you."

"Why not?" Emma snapped back. A horrible thought occurred to her. "Why – was it something about me?"

He was silent.

_"Hook?"_

His bleary blue gaze stared a thousand yards into the distance. He said after an eternal, horrible pause, "No."

A chill ran down Emma's spine. "You're lying."

"And why is it. . . that 'm not allowed to lie about anything, while you get to keep all the s. . .s. . .secrets you like, Miss _Swan?" _He bit off her name like a slap; that answered the question of whether or not he recognized her, all right. "Sauce for the goose. . . sauce for the gander, eh? At any rate, thas' my story, and I'm sticking to it. Now. . kiss me or kill me or get me more bloody rum, I don' ca-care at this. . . this point. You saw him in the memory. Liam. Will's right. . . wouldn't know me, be bitterly disappointed in me, hate what I've done. . . but I can't stop, if there's any chance of bringing him back. . . all of them. . ."

Another unexpected, uncomfortable burst of sympathy burned through Emma, as she thought that no matter how powerful the magicians and their craft had become, the one code they could not crack, could not command with their power, was death. That was why the Church could still have some sway claiming that theirs was the only way to eternal life, that charlatans behind curtains with all their smoke and mirrors were still merely frauds and temptations and servants of the devil. Emma did not know anyone who had ever claimed to be able to turn back time or raise the dead, but if that was what Jafar had promised Killian in return for his service. . .

She looked back down at him. Felt a strange urge to mother him, to take care of him, but she knew she was no good at it. Once-yearly visits with Henry, sitting stiffly in the parlor and talking about school, had not taught her now, and even on the occasions they started to have actual fun, Lady Regina would promptly appear to put a stop to it. She clenched her hands tightly in her lap, fighting off the impulse, then got to her feet. "Very well," she said. "Keep your secrets. I don't care anyway, believe me."

His eyes flicked to her, with an expression of such exhausted pain that she was tempted to take the words back, but they had already been spoken, and she was not about to compromise herself by showing any further weakness in front of him. She crossed the floor, resisting the desire to look back over her shoulder, and emerged onto the deck, where the crew was waiting expectantly. "It's all right," she announced. "The captain says he's sent Scarlet and the queen on his errand, they should be back quite soon."

The crew dutifully nodded; they were not accustomed to questioning their captain's word even secondhand, and even if they might not have entirely believed it, they said nothing. They dispersed across the ship to tend to their duties, most of them enviously eyeing the shore with its palm trees and pleasure houses and women in ruffles, and Emma was quite sure that several of them had sneaked off to visit it already. Well, Hook _had _said they were staying here at least a few more days, it wasn't as if they were in danger of being left behind, or. . .

She glanced at the shipboard clock. It had been at least two hours since Will and Elsa left, and while it was possible that they'd had trouble finding the telegraph office, or any other number of perfectly good reasons, it was still making her edgy. She reminded herself that Killian hadn't come back until dawn and was all right (at least physically, possibly, but something was chirping at her. She still had the battered _shem _stowed in her pocket, not daring to leave it anywhere else, and wondered if that was contributing to her unease, but as another hour dragged by with no sign of the thief and the queen, she was quite sure that that was sufficient cause on its own. Snatching her own parasol and attempting to look as demure as possible, she strolled casually off the ship, along the bustling quay, and set off into Monaco.

It was the first time she had had her personal freedom, or been alone, since the jailbreak at the Tower and being taken aboard the _Roger _in the first place, and it felt good. Emma sauntered along with assumed nonchalance, using her bounty hunter skills to read the temperament of the crowd. Nothing much, no undercurrent of fear or lynching fever. She looked for the gendarmes, and saw two of them loitering on the boardwalk without a care in the world. Nothing seemed to be amiss, no city-wide emergency, so _if _Will and Elsa had been taken, whoever was responsible had done so quietly. This increased Emma's foreboding substantially, and she was just wondering if she should find an excuse to make her way up to the casino, when she heard wheels clicking on the pavement behind her, and turned, startled.

It was a fine black hansom with deep-purple curtained windows, pulled by a magnificent black horse, and the driver had his eyes fixed straight on her. "Madam," he called, in a nasal London accent. "You will kindly stop a moment, please?"

Emma gripped her parasol. "Beg pardon, do I know you?"

The driver shrugged, and the hansom drew level with her. Then the passenger door unlatched and swung open, and she – bereft of every glib explanation or clever excuse – simply stared.

"Hello, dearie," Robert Gold said, face splitting in a malicious, delighted smile. "Not expecting to see me, were you?"


	13. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

"Do get in, won't you?" Gold went on, holding the hansom door open. "It must be a long way to wherever you're bound. Besides, I would so relish the chance to catch up. Busy life you've had since we've last spoken, haven't you, my dear?"

"I'm fine, thank you." Emma remained rooted to the spot. The absolute last thing she intended to do was to willingly enter a dark carriage with him, with a chloroform-soaked handkerchief or worse certain to be awaiting, where she would be spirited off never to be heard from again. She reached down to her thigh to unholster the derringer, wondering if she had the nerve to put a bullet between his eyes right here, right now, in more or less broad daylight on a busy public thoroughfare. But cutting one head, even an important one, off this hydra did nothing to dull the venom of all the others; killing Gold would not bring down the Royal Society, or restore the Night Market, or keep her safe. Yet there was no other alternative she could see, if she wasn't going to get in there, and she wasn't, no chance in –

Gold tsk-tsked reproachfully. "Now, dearie, _that _is just uncivilized." He made a quick gesture, and Emma felt the pearl-handled pistol jerk out of her hand, flying to his; he caught it neatly and spun it around his finger, admiring it, then glanced up to her again. "And we surely do not want that, either of us, do we? Now please, be a good girl and join me for a brief chat. I am taking pains, you see. It doesn't have to be this pleasant."

Emma hesitated, wondering what would happen if she screamed at the oblivious gendarmes. Get them knocked out or killed, most likely, and Gold, following the flick of her eyes, said, "Oh, them. I've already taken the liberty of bewitching them. Go ahead and shout all you like, it won't make the rum bit of difference."

After a moment more, thinking that she could fight him hand to hand if it came to it, or perhaps find the snuffbox or cufflink containing his aether supply so she could knock it off and render him powerless, Emma loathingly climbed into the hansom. Gold beamed, pulled the door shut behind her, and rapped briskly on the roof, signaling the coachman to drive – which he did without an apparent hair turned, either used to his master abducting hapless individuals off the street or well-paid enough to turn a blind eye. Emma sat ramrod-straight, hands crossed in her lap, feeling up her sleeve to be sure that her stiletto was still in its forearm sheath. Whatever he was doing, whatever he meant, she would not go down without a struggle.

"So," Gold said breezily, as if they were two old friends meeting for casual conversation. "Are you enjoying Monaco, my dear? Most diverting place, wouldn't you agree?"

Emma said nothing.

"I asked you a question." The President of the Royal Society sounded more sleekly urbane and charming than ever. "How can we have a conversation if you continue to sit there in mumpish silence? At first I thought you had come here to spy on Jafar for me. Imagine my disappointment when that proved not to be the case. Such a threat must be swiftly dealt with. Have you nothing at all to say?"

"He is – quite in earnest about raising the golem of Prague." Emma didn't suppose that could hurt so much to reveal. "And seeks to gain access to other power as well."

Gold tutted. "I could have gathered as much for myself. But you see, the thing about Jafar. . . he _is _most cunning and dangerous, especially for that sort of man, and hence why he must be put out of business as swiftly as possible. It is simply not natural or conducive to the proper order of things for him to continue to style himself a sorcerer equal to or surpassing the Society. Otherwise he could inspire more of his ilk to rise up against the British Empire, and as a dutiful servant of Her Majesty's Government, I could never permit that to happen."

"Oh?" Emma murmured, doing her utmost to convey the minimal amount of frostily cordial interest. "I did not know the Ottoman Empire was any danger in that regard."

"Not the Ottoman Empire, per se, but men of his. . . color." Gold flicked open a small bronze vial and took a gourmand sniff, then a delicate sip. "We all know that their decadent and backward society is deeply in decline, and they are in considerable difficulties with the Russians over control of the Crimean peninsula – Russia is determined to expand in the face of their weakness, which we, as opponents of the Tsar, must duly oppose. Still more, there are rumors that trouble is brewing in India, and other valued possessions of the British Crown. And likely we shall have to fight another war against China before too long. Will you recall the first, or were you too young?"

Emma did recall a few scattered particulars. The Opium War had come about because the Chinese Emperor refused to take Western goods in trade, even though porcelain and tea and other luxuries from the isolated kingdom were all the rage in fashionable Europe. Eventually the British, frustrated and unwilling to trade the Emperor the one thing he most desired – aether, because magic in the hands of _those _people was simply unwelcome and uncontrollable – had hit upon a suitable substitute in the form of opium. With the Chinese population quickly addicted, and imperial agents attempting in vain to stop its spread, the Royal Navy had invaded, beaten them soundly, and forced them to sign the Treaty of Nanking, ensuring that the opium would continue to flow in and the fine goods would continue to flow out, particularly through the newly acquired British port of Hong Kong. With the combined difficulties of Russian encroachments in the Crimea, potential uprising in India, and continued unrest in China, Emma could rather see why Gold took such a particular interest in bringing Jafar down, in case all the British Empire's dominoes should topple at once, and Jafar was just the sort of man to light such a spark.

"Oh," she said again, neutrally. "Wouldn't that be a shame."

"Indeed, Miss Swan, indeed." Gold leaned back on the carriage seat. "We must act urgently and decisively in wiping Jafar and all his kind from the face of the earth. As well, there was a particular young woman in China that gave us trouble the last time – Mulan, I believe her name was. She fought like some sort of oriental Jeanne d'Arc, but while she has languished in prison for years, it might be advisable to hasten her to Jeanne's same end. And in the case that you find this distasteful, I assure you that I am not acting from any unfortunate prejudice, but rather simply in the best interests of science and civilization. The continued progress of the world must be the charge of enlightened men, rather than these irrational and hysteric folk."

"I see," Emma murmured, dry as a bone. Whatever the Royal Society's vision of an enlightened world was, she was entirely confident that she wanted no part of it. She'd already seen the beginning of it with their destruction of the Night Market, something she felt a continued responsibility for, and had to clench her fists, fighting a terrible urge to shove open the carriage door and throw Gold out of it. "How admirable."

The magician briefly preened, but then shrugged. "And let us not forget, an important part of this safety and security for Britain rested on _you_ catching Killian Jones for me. How unfortunate that it seems to have slipped your mind."

"It has not in the least, I promise you."

"Careful, dearie. Don't make promises you don't mean. Tricky things, promises." Gold chuckled. "And from my own humble perspective, it certainly doesn't appear that way. But don't fear. There is still a way you can assist me in catching him."

That only sent a further chill down Emma's back. "Is there?"

"Oh yes." Gold patted her knee. "It will be fun."

Emma's grip tightened on the stiletto, on the verge of whipping it out and making a deadly earnest attempt to cut his throat and damn the consequences, but he merely sighed, said, "Your boy would be _so _disappointed in you, wouldn't he?" and gave another cursory flick of the hand. Emma felt a sudden wetness in her sleeve, and when she pulled it out to look, she saw that the blade had turned to water, leaving only the useless hilt in her hand. Eyes burning, she flung it to the floor. "What do you want with me?" she growled.

"So unnecessarily hostile." Gold cocked an eyebrow at her. "I find it wise to protect my investments. So let me ask one simple question. Do you have any sort of. . . shall we say. . . _feelings _for this man?"

"No."

"And you don't trust him either, then?"

"Of course not."

"Then why in the world haven't you brought him to me yet? And don't make excuses. I happen to know that you have been traveling in company with him for over a week now. Yet you have made no attempt to contact me."

"Matters were. . . complicated."

Gold chortled. "Of course they were. So, dearie, let us put this to a simple test. I am here in Monaco to pursue my professional, political, and personal interests all together, and as such, I am hosting a costume gala at my mansion this evening. You, of course, will be an honored guest. I have even taken the liberty of having a dress made for you. Have you ever heard of the Russian folktale of the swans who turn into women by moonlight, entrance a prince, and must be saved from an evil sorcerer? Well, my dear, this is your moment to live your _nom de plume. _Will the Black Swan be revealed as an impostor at midnight, or banished by the victory of the White Swan and saved by her true love? Or shall the sorcerer take her into his power forever? One does wonder."

Emma stared at him as the sickening truth dawned on her. _Bait. He's using me as bait. _That was what he had meant by him still knowing another way for her to help him catch Hook. He was daring the pirate to stage an all-out break-in at the masquerade ball, to rescue her – but why on earth would he ever do that? And if he didn't, then she fell into Gold's hands, marked as a traitor and doomed for whatever fate he chose to put her to, which was singularly unlikely to be a pleasant one. "You must know he's not going to come," she said, striving for nonchalance. "He has no reason to care for me."

"Oh, but dearie, I rather think he does." Gold's eyes glittered malevolently. "Couple that with the chance, finally, to take a clear shot at me whilst I am at ease among my company, comparatively unguarded. . . I know the way his mind works, you see. He won't be able to resist. And on the vanishingly slender chance that he does. . . well, that would be quite unfortunate for you, wouldn't it? Therefore I am sure you will find a way to ensure that this is so."

Emma clenched her fists until she felt her fingernails break the skin. Once more, she reckoned up her potential prospects of strangling him, but was forced to conclude that they were very dim. She hadn't told anyone on the ship she was going to search for Will and Elsa (and why was she counting on a gang of _pirates _to help her?) and she knew, of course, that she had left Killian dead drunk and completely useless in the cabin. Even if for some stupefying reason he _was _inclined to lift a finger (or a hook) on her behalf, he wouldn't be able to or know a thing about it anyway. It occurred to her that she could save her own neck right now, just order the cab to turn around and lead them straight to the _Roger, _where Gold could take the inebriated captain into custody without even much of a struggle. Easy, and simple. She could. She _should._

Yet that did not quite seem fair. The furthest thing from it, in fact. And while Emma savagely jeered herself that she'd never known scruples to stop her before, the fact remained that while she might not care much for Killian Jones personally, that did not mean she wanted Gold to win – especially when he had laid out with such chilling precision just how far his vision extended. And at that moment, she made up her mind for good that she was not merely going to meekly give him such a bird in the hand. If he wanted Hook, and Hook wanted him, they could fight it out between themselves. She washed her hands of it. All she had to work out was how to get here with her own neck more or less intact, and if worse came to worse, she _did _have the strange power, strong enough (at least when matched with Elsa's, which had likely done most of the work) to defeat the sentinel statues of St. Vitus. While Emma was not nearly so delusional as to think that she could last five minutes in a sorcerer's duel against an opponent like Gold, it might surprise him or throw him of his game long enough for her to think of something else. And if she _was _going to die, well. . . better to do it on her terms.

"Fine," she said, giving Gold a smile, lips pulled back to show her canines. "Let's play."

"Oh, dearie." Gold took another sip from the flask, then thumbed it shut and stashed it tidily in the pocket of his smoking jacket. "Shall we ever."

* * *

The hansom rolled up beneath the vast, shady portico of a sprawling clifftop mansion a few minutes later, and Gold stepped out first, handing Emma down with obnoxiously specious gallantry. Clearly vigilant to the possibility that she might choose this moment to try a break for it, he kept a hand on her back as he escorted her inside. "Belle!" he called. "See to the needs of our guest, won't you?"

A pause, and then Emma got a start as the same young maid who had first greeted her at Kensington stepped around the corner. Then again, it shouldn't be surprising; well-to-do households generally traveled with their servants, especially someone as paranoid as Gold. She mouthed at Belle, trying to catch her eye, but the other woman did not appear to notice, gaze fixed shrewdly on her employer. "And when you say needs, you mean what, exactly?"

"Just that I want her to be, pardon me, the belle of the ball tonight." Gold flashed a crocodile grin. "Surely you can manage that?"

"I suppose so," Belle conceded, taking Emma by the arm. "If you'd come with me, miss, please?"

Lacking any better alternative at the moment, Emma allowed herself to be led off, glancing in every direction for features of the residence she might find it useful to know later. This was apparently Gold's vacation home, but he had not come here to enjoy the sunshine and a few leisurely drinks. He could have gotten wind of the robbery at St. Vitus, or have his own intrigues in place against Jafar (she'd be a fool to doubt it) or he could be tracking the _Jolly Roger _somehow. If in those last frenzied moments escaping from the Tower, one of the Beefeaters had gotten himself together enough to cast a homing spell. . . but if so, if Gold had finally acquired a bead on his fiercely hunted mortal enemy, why not pounce before now? Why run even the slightest risk of letting him escape, thieve the treasures of Prague, and then. . .

Yet as Emma stood there, looking around the ornate room to which Belle had shown her, thinking of Gold's grandiose plans for a costume ball that night, the answer came to her. He _could _merely send some agents to jump Hook in a dark alley and drag him off to a sticky end, as they had nearly succeeded in doing to Will, but the Empire's greatest enemy required a far more dramatic downfall. To take him down before all the luminaries of Europe, amidst the pomp and spectacle and mystique of a masquerade ball, the moment of midnight when the villain was unmasked and revealed to be who he was. . . Gold had staged it all with the care of any showmaster in Drury Lane, and used them all as actors, painted props, melancholy players. Only now could Emma begin to see the full depth and immensity of the trap woven to ensnare them, pulling them back and forth between Gold's maneuvers and Jafar's, until she was no longer sure which one belonged to which or what either of them had actually been planning to do in the first place._ We never stood a chance. _And now that the four of them (and particularly her) had so helpfully broken the seal on the defenses protecting Prague's oldest and most dangerous magic from the world. . .

Emma felt faint, and had to take a few deep gulps of air, hand pressed to her stomach, until she could see straight again. _If I just get out of here, _she told herself, _if I just run away, it will be all right. _It was a formidably daunting task, beyond anything she had ever faced in over a decade as a bounty hunter, but she refused to consider the odds; if there was anything she was good at, it was running. Her obligations to Gold were clearly null and void, the contract terminated. She could find asylum in Russia, the British Empire's great rival, or perhaps America, but that was very far away. _I just have to get out first. That's all. I can do this. I know how._

Emma spent the rest of the day wearing a track into the rich carpet with her pacing; food and drink were provided, but she took none of it. Then twilight fell, lights began to appear among the dark, twisting streets, and with a knock and a curtsy, Belle showed herself into the room, carrying a large portmanteau. When opened on the bed, it proved to contain a black dress, headpiece, and mask, and as Emma examined them, she began to feel a fierce, wild thrill burning up in her. Gold wanted the Black Swan, did he? Did he expect her to prettily flap her wings and sit on her perch like a tame sparrow, waiting the axe upon her neck? No. Not now. Not ever. The Black Swan he would damned well get.

Emma watched the transformation in the mirror as Belle worked. The dress – a tight corseted bodice scooped shockingly low and gusseted with black lace, the single black pearl on the ribboned choker around her neck, exposing her slender throat and the deep curves of her bosom in all their glory. The skirt was layers of rustling silk and tulle, tucked and flounced, that made a sound like feathers when she moved. The oversleeves were pinned on, fitted to the elbow and flaring out, and Emma looped the cuff thread around her finger, pulling them up and down. _Gold has made a terrible mistake. He has given me wings._

Lastly the finishing touches: her blonde curls combed into a tight, gleaming chignon, topped with the black tiara, a black diamond glittering in its setting and a sleek raven's feather crowning it. The mask, encrusted with pearls and onyx, patterned like a harlequin. The only color was that of the blood-red paint Belle applied to her lips. _The Black Swan rises. _The reflection before her now was beautiful, and terrifying, and dangerous. Could love a man or kill him, dance and dice with death, a creature of night and ravishment. Emma reached out a languid white hand, admiring the effect, then turned to Belle. She did not ask how she looked, knowing full well. "I am ready."

"I – yes, madame. Yes." Belle dropped another curtsy, still staring. Through the window, Emma could see carriages and phaetons and hansoms pulling up to the portico and decanting their well-dressed guests inside; she could hear a distant hum of talk and laughter rising through the floor. She reminded herself that she was an idiot for even thinking that Hook might be coming. If he had caught wind of it, he must know that it was a trap to destroy him, and hence would be as far away as he, or some sober lackey, could take the _Roger. _She neither needed nor wanted him to come, not at all. If he did. . . if he was struck down at midnight, the spell broken. . .

Emma shook her head and at Belle's signal, followed her out the door and down the hall, to the top of the grand staircase. Countless candelabras, as well as the delicate golden shimmer of aether, lit the mansion's front all and sparkled in the jewels of all the dignitaries' wives competing to outdo each other, bobbing alongside their jacketed, top-hatted husbands like limpets. As the host, Gold was in the center of the hoopla, munificently shaking hands and making introductions, but as Emma started her descent, one hand resting lightly on the balustrade, the entire place went stone-silent. In no hurry, she came step by step, conscious of all the eyes on her – head haughtily upraised, looking straight ahead, making no acknowledgement, soaring high above the crowd. She continued to hold the trancelike hush until she reached the second-to-last step, waited until they were craning forward in desperate anticipation, and then, arms upraised as the sleeves trailed behind her, the wings of a great bird folding from flight, she made her landing.

The instant she did, she was veritably swarmed. Young men crowded in from all sides at once, begging for her dance card, while the older ones eyed her from afar, suspicious but fascinated nonetheless. Emma disdained the lot of them, keeping her attention fixed on Gold, who was watching her just as intently. When afforded a break from the sycophantic hordes, he oiled in her direction. "Miss Swan. How lovely that you have joined us to make. . . such an impression."

"I _am _working for you, don't you remember?" Emma gave him her sickly-sweetest smile. "And you're a man of sense, Robert. You won't let such a valuable asset slip away."

Gold's eyebrows rose at the use of his Christian name, but he smiled too, lifting her hand to his lips and impressing a brief, bone-dry kiss upon it. "Good evening, Miss Swan."

With another smile at him that would have flayed the flesh from his bones if it had physical form, Emma moved off into the crowd, eyeing up all potential exits. Once she had her parasol in hand, she could do a fair bit of damage, but she couldn't run far in these bulky skirts. There on the hors d'oeuvres table – a cheese knife which looked reasonably sharp, she could cut off most of the fabric with that, and also plant it between the eyeballs of anyone attempting to stop her. A stately waltz had started up around her, but she paid no attention as couples began to whirl elegantly across the floor. Almost there, almost there. Then she would do it, go for it, she –

Would never find out.

For that was when she, and everyone, heard the gunshot.

* * *

Killian Jones' head ached like buggering damnation and then some, and worse, he was perfectly well aware that it was his own bloody fault. Nonetheless, he didn't care. He'd get round to belting holy hell out of Scarlet later, but that too could wait. As the three of them – himself, the exasperating twat in question, and the queen of Norway, all tricked up in hastily contrived costumes and masks – climbed the steep street toward the magisterial residence reclining atop the hill, he snarled, "I swear, if you're pulling my leg, Jafar will look kind and merciful next to what I'll do to – "

"Oh, shut it," Will hissed back. "D'you really think I'm stupid enough to mistake the sight of a huge bloody airship with Her Majesty's sigil on it – and _his? _Gold is bloody here in bloody Monaco, _and _he's got Miss Swan. Me and Queen Frostine here hid as soon as we saw that airship cruisin' in for a landing, and when we finally dared to come out, we saw her with our own eyes, gettin' into a carriage with him. Swear it. Pennies to pounds she's already turned you in. So why exactly are we – "

"I'm not coming to rescue her. I'm coming to kill him." Every breath burned in Killian's chest like a hot knife. He was still more than slightly drunk, but when Will and Elsa had burst into his cabin with the news (they had been on some other errand and wouldn't tell him what) there was no other choice. Aye. Get it done. Complete the bargain. Better that way. Better than deluding himself into thinking that he still had anything left to live for. He should never have kissed her. Should never have waited so long to start. Should have kissed her every moment he could while he still could, but it was all too late now.

They reached the top of the hill, slipping inconspicuously into the serried throngs. The doors of the mansion stood open, gulping them in like the mouth of an inferno, and Killian felt briefly outside his body altogether. "You," he ordered the two of them in a savage whisper. "Find Miss Swan. I'll deal with Gold."

"Oh?" Will whispered back. "And what was that again about not bein' here to rescue her?"

"I said I wasn't. I didn't say a damn thing about you. Get her out of here as far as you can. Take the _Roger. _Try not to do anything stupid with her. Watch out for Long John Silver, he's a sneaky bastard. Smee will know the ports of call and the secret routes, the ship will do the rest."

Will's expression soured into a troubled frown. "Captain," he began. "That – that sounds an awful lot like you're not plannin' to come back."

Killian did not answer, gazing up at the mansion overhead, blotting out the stars. For an absurd moment he looked for Virgil, coming to lead him down into the fire. Then he said, "Goodbye, Will. I'm sorry I was such a bastard. But there's no helping it now."

"Killian – mate, no, _wait – "_

Too late. Killian shoved away, losing them in the crowd, and began to walk quickly around the bulk of the house to the side, then around the back toward the garden. He scaled the ivy-twined wall with ease and dropped down into a private terrace, glancing quickly from side to side. Seeing no one, he unclicked his false hand and slotted the gleamingly silver, lethally sharp hook in its place, then took off his mask. No use in attempting to conceal his identity now, and damn if he wanted to anyway. Let them know who he was, and let them all be afraid one last bloody time. He was beyond caring. It was astounding, the courage that being a dead man gave you.

With that, blood burning and singing in his veins, he set off across the garden, casually smashed the glass of the French doors with his hook, and reached in with his hand to unlock them. Stepped inside to the cool darkness, but could hear the light and noise of the party just down the hall. He felt on the very brink of total insanity. Justice at last, for everything the Royal Society and the Empire had taken from him. Soon he'd be with Liam again for real, wouldn't ever have to leave. Be with all of them. Almost there, almost over, it was –

And then, in that moment, he ran very hard into something or rather some_one – _someone small and soft and feminine, which almost let out a startled squeal, but was stopped by him clamping his hand ferociously over her mouth. As he hauled her into the pearly pool of moonlight, he saw that it was her. Gold's little maid. Oh, and he had heard about her.

"Good evening, my lady," he whispered, lips against her ear. "Please don't scream. It would be very unfortunate."

"I'll – mm – do what I – " Belle struggled to peel off his fingers. "I won't let you."

_"Protecting _him?" Killian looked at her disbelievingly. "Don't be foolish, lass. I can save you too, I can get you out of here. I know what that man is, what he must do to you. You're his slave, his – "

"You don't know him." Belle stared back at him defiantly. "He's a very lonely man."

_"Oh?" _He whirled her around, shoving her against the wall. "And – did – he – ever – tell – you – _why?"_

"His – his son ran away, and. . . and his wife – "

_"He killed her!" _Killian tightened his grip on her wrist, shoving his hook into her face. Let her open her big, guileless blue eyes to that, if she could. "He murdered her in cold blood and took my hand, that's what your precious employer is! A monster! He killed her, he killed my Milah for the crime of being happy with him and not with him, _dishonoring _him! He thought I stole her, when she came to me, begged me to take her away – tell me, love, is that theft? To fucking _hell_with this bloody idea that a wife is a husband's chattel and slave and broodmare. Milah was a person, and he killed her. That's why I'm going to kill him now."

"No." Belle pushed in vain at his arm. "No, I won't let you."

"Oh?" Keeping her locked in place with his hook, Killian reached into the pocket of his coat, pulled out a pistol, and cocked it with an ominous thunk. "Then you're a problem, aren't you?"

Belle stared at him with loathing down the barrel of the gun. "Your heart is _rotten."_

"You have no idea." Killian took a few steps back, still keeping it trained unwaveringly on her. "Now, you have a choice. You can step aside and get out of my way – believe me, love, I don't _want _to do this – or you can, well. Not."

"I won't." Belle planted herself in the doorway, white-faced but resolute. "I won't."

"Oh, then." Killian bared his teeth. "I should feel worse about this, but somehow. . . I don't."

And with that, he shot her.

* * *

The grand ballroom fell as completely silent as it had at Emma's entrance, but in a much different, horrible, apprehensive way. Then the whispers and hisses started, and then someone screamed, and then Belle came running into the hall with her hand clutched to her bloody sleeve. "He – " she gasped, choking. "He's – "

Gold whirled, staring at her. He went straightaway to her side, healed the superficial wound with a wave of his hand, and shoved her behind him – just as her entrance was followed by that of a completely demented-looking Captain Hook, still grinning, smoking pistol still in hand. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," he drawled. "Who wants to get it next?"

Emma's heart somersaulted madly into her throat. The crowd cleared away to either side as he advanced, until he and Gold were standing directly beneath the great chandelier, staring into each other's faces, fixed and unblinking, mesmerized by hatred. "You," Gold breathed. "I was _so _hoping you would decide to attend my little soiree."

"What a pity that my invitation appears to have been lost in the post." Hook grinned, a twisted rictus. As one of the nearby gentlemen started forward in outrage, the pirate jabbed the gun at him. "I'm drunk, but not so drunk I can't drop you like a mad dog, my _lord. _Don't try it."

"Stay back," Gold ordered. "He's mine."

"Oh, I quite agree. You're the only one who _has _to die tonight. Anyone else would just be bad form." Hook swung the gun up. "You took my Milah, my love, my happiness – and for that, I take your life."

And with that, never changing expression, he fired.

Gold's hand flashed up, a shimmer of magic encasing the bullet and directing it harmlessly away – but in the split second it had taken him to do that, Hook lunged. His arm swung overhead, the silver flashing in the candlelight – not for nothing did that metal repel werewolves and vampires and other fey creatures, and even the best-trained magicians preferred not to have much to do with it, except as a charm against said creatures. The hook caught in the cloth of Gold's exquisitely cut suit, twisted – Emma thought she saw blood bloom up on the white linen beneath, couldn't be sure – and then the President of the Royal Society, damaged but not in the least done for, flung out both hands, hurled a bolt of magic so thunderous that it exploded wine glasses and the crystal droplets in the chandelier, and caught Hook broadside, throwing him backwards into a table that crashed down beneath him. So did he, motionless.

Emma swallowed a scream, at which she must have been the only one to do so. Guests were screeching like a flock of panicked geese, fleeing for the exits en masse, smoke rising from where Hook had landed, the air reeking with the heavy burned scent of spent aether – but from what she could see, the doors and windows were slamming shut of their own accord. It gave her a horrible flashback to being trapped in the Night Market as it burned, and she jostled in panic against the human tide, trying to reach the knife or any kind of weapon whatsoever, when a hand caught her arm. "Oy. _Oy!"_

Terrified, Emma spun around to see – of all the _bloody _things – Will and Elsa, both decked out in evening finery, apparently here with the intent of retrieving her. But what the – Hook couldn't have brought them, why had they – but they were grabbing her, and she was pushing back, and –

The guests, barricaded in, huddled against the walls and tables, breathing in sobbing gasps, pieces of the broken chandelier gleaming like shards of ice on the floor. Panting raggedly himself, blood staining the front of his fine shirt, Gold stalked to Hook's fallen body, clearly preparing for the coup de grace. Will let out a strangled noise of horror, and Emma clawed at his arm holding her back. Didn't even know why, just that she had to – but he restrained her harder. "Don't look," he ordered her harshly, gathering in Elsa with the other arm. "Don't look. You don't want to see this."

"Killian Bartholomew Jones," Gold announced, voice ringing in the shattered silence. "You are an enemy of the Crown, the Royal Society, the British Empire, and God Almighty, and for that and your incalculable and despicable crimes, I do sentence you here and now to die. Good folk, bear witness. This is what becomes of traitors, rebels, and _pirates."_

Will moaned and swore under his breath; Emma could feel him shaking. Elsa gasped and buried her face in his shoulder. It was done, there was nothing they could do but watch Killian die in front of their eyes, or turn away at the last moment and –

Yet as Gold's clawed fist began to burn with lethal fire, a sound like a booming deep bell echoed from the top of the grand staircase, and heads swiveled in unison. Another communal gasp hissed out. A mysterious tall figure, cloaked head to foot in an elaborate crimson costume, wearing a red skull mask, stood at the railing, raised a hand, and as Gold unloosed the fire, it – instead of incinerating the unconscious pirate as it was intended to – flew to the newcomer's fingers instead, which he caught as easily as if someone had tossed him a ball. It fizzed frantically, then went out.

Without a word, the man in red started down the stairs at a calm, measured, infinitely threatening pace, his heavy cloak swirling out behind him. Everyone held their breath, staring fearfully at him, awaiting some new devilry, until he reached the bottom. The skull mask was even more unsettling at close range, coal-black eyes gleaming behind it, and Emma was reminded suddenly of a short story she had once read, by some American or other – what was his name? Poe, yes, that had been it, Edgar Allan Poe. In the story, Prince Prospero had held a masquerade ball of seven colors, trying to avoid the plague of the Red Death that ran rampant outside the walls of his castle – only for a shadowy, gruesome figure to arrive, revealed to be the Red Death itself, killing the prince and all of his guests. Who – _what _this was –

"Why so silent, _messieurs et mesdames?" _the man asked, in a deep, cultured voice. "You seem surprised to see me. Yet surely such a social event merits my own invitation?"

"You." Gold's lip curled. "I should have known. I'll deal with you shortly. I have a pirate to kill first."

"That, my old friend, would be the nature of my interruption." The eclipse of a smile flashed beneath the mask, sharp and white. "I am afraid I cannot permit you to do that."

"And whyever not?"

"Because his life belongs to me." The Red Death shrugged. "That _was _the bargain we made. It did not have to be, but he was insistent. And it's still in effect. So I had to come by to ensure that you were not destroying my investment, as well to fetch my purchase."

"I was unaware I'd sold you anything."

"Doubtless you were. The wardrobe, upstairs? I'll take it, please."

Emma wheeled to Will, who was watching in the same sort of horrified trance. "Is that – "

"Aye," he whispered back. "Jafar."

Even if she hadn't trusted the thief's word, one look at Elsa would have confirmed it. The queen had gone rigid, staring, and something cool swirled against Emma's face: a snowflake. Even if it was not a good idea to use her magic, even it was literally poisoning her, the heat of her rage against her captor was summoning it up nonetheless. She uttered a low, animal noise in her throat, and Will reached for her, looking alarmed. "Hey, don't – "

"The mood seems rather tense for a party," Jafar announced, glancing around at the terrified, cowering guests. "Perhaps a joke will lighten it. I heard a rather amusing one that goes like this. Two gentlemen are walking in Hyde Park, and the first says to the second, 'Did you hear about the horse that was elected to Parliament? They can pass no bills for all he can say is Neigh.' And the second gentleman says to the first, 'It is a frank surprise to me to hear that there is a horse in Parliament, for I thought all of them were asses.' Not, of course, that I would presume to insult Her Majesty's Government, nor its fine representatives. Are we at ease yet? No?"

"Out." Gold's fist crackled with renewed fire.

Jafar sighed and waved a hand, and yet again, the fire sucked itself out of Gold's grasp, flew to his, and extinguished. Then he made a deft motion, and from nowhere, the air wove itself into the shape of a strange black-handled knife, which made Emma nauseous just to look at. There was something fundamentally _wrong _with it, as if the air pulled back from it, curling and splitting at the edges. "Do you know what this is?" he asked, in a low, sibilant hiss.

Gold stared at it. "The _arthame _that was written of in the Key of Solomon," he said at last, flatly. "Or at least, so you think."

"Oh no. I am quite sure. There is a bottle in your possession – I will be buying that from you too, by the by – which I would like to have to complete my collection, so this knife achieves its full potency. If for any reason you feel disposed to cause difficulty in the transaction – " Jafar smiled pleasantly – "I shall unloose a golem upon London. You have two days to decide."

"And animate it with what?" Gold sneered. "Not even you can bring a golem to life from spit and – "

"But I shan't have to." Behind the mask, the freezing black eyes swung to fix directly on Emma. "The _shem _is here. Indeed, in this very room. You're losing your touch, Robert."

Emma felt as if the world had turned out from beneath her feet. She put a hand to the place in her bodice where she had stored the scroll, cursing herself for ever bringing it here – but the alternative was to leave it behind on the ship, and she, not trusting Hook an inch, had been certain that he would take it and hand it over. She remained motionless, a sparrow in a serpent's eye, as Jafar smiled pleasantly at her. "Miss Swan, at last. I've heard so much about you."

Emma backed away. Jafar moved with her, mirroring her, anticipating her feints. Elsa screamed something at him in Norwegian, and his eyes flashed to her – Elsa let loose with both barrels, razor-sharp icicles the size of spears hammering toward him. But Jafar flicked two fingers as negligently as if he was swatting away a fly, the icicles dissolved into glittering dust, and an invisible wind slammed into Elsa, lifting her bodily and cracking her against one of the handsome columns. She slid down it, leaving an ugly streak of blood, and didn't get up.

"Son of a _bitch!"_ Will roared, ducking as a similar blast of magic tore over his head, leaving a charred hole in the wall. "You bloody madman, what're you – "

Gold had seen more than enough. Raising both hands, teeth bared, he unloosed a floor-shaking gust of magic that crashed into Jafar's counter-blast halfway across the ballroom, the competing spells concussing the ground with shocks and groans like a collapsing building, sparks flaring and grinding crazily. Emma could see more crumpled bodies beyond the ring of unearthly white light, people trying vainly to take cover as stray bolts splattered and screamed down like deadly hail. But Jafar was using only one hand to block Gold's furious barrage of attacks, and looked as casual as if he himself was the one taking the walk in Hyde Park; it barely seemed to be taking any effort. With the other, he was holding the black-handled knife, cutting at what seemed like thin air, and Emma could see something dark coiling through where he slashed. She ran as hard as she could, reached the cheese table with no interference, and sawed at handfuls of her skirt in a mindless, terrible panic, leaving clumps of torn black silk and tulle. _The Black Swan falling. _An arrow through her breast, plunging, _plunging –_

The air was thick with smoke from the heat of the duel, Jafar and Gold circling like lions at the kill, the candles blowing out as all the air in the room was consumed, the echoes of spells barely fading before new ones boomed out, their two interlocked figures black as night at the heart of the blazing, unnatural fire. Emma crawled on her hands and knees, too afraid to stand up for fear of being hit; her head was starting to swim. She couldn't make it. They were going to die, all of them were going to die, only a start to whatever Jafar was summoning through, whatever he wanted. None of them, none of them would –

And then something heavy fell on top of her from nowhere, and she screamed, pushing frantically at the solid thing, stifling her, _choking _her. A dazzled, eternal moment later, she saw that it was Hook. Apparently having revived unnoticed in the middle of all the commotion, he had made it to her side and thrown himself over her just as the blast went off.

"Hook?" She shoved at him, shaking his shoulder, her voice a thin, terrified whisper, rasped with smoke. He wasn't moving, blood trickling down his face. "Hook!"

She shot a glance back into the madness of the ballroom, searching desperately for Will or Elsa. She couldn't see a thing. Nothing was moving. Now or never. She grabbed the comatose pirate by the shoulders, dragging him behind her, and wrenched at the barred door with her blistered hands, shaking from head to foot. Fell out into the cooler air in the hallway, which felt like an agonizing, glorious slap against her burning face. _I should just leave him. _Her arms ached and strained. _There is no way out._

Something – Jafar had said – wardrobe upstairs – wanted it – he wanted it – a mad gamble, but that was the only kind left –

Huffing and gasping, blackened tears rolling down her cheeks, coughing and struggling, Emma climbed the stairs, Hook hoisted in a fireman's carry over her shoulders. She was a strong woman, and he wasn't the largest man, but it was taking every bit of effort she could muster, as she reached the top and let him slide off. Grabbed him by the black leather again, hauling him along the floor, staring madly into every room they passed. Thought she could hear someone behind them – masque of the red death indeed –

There. At the far end. Just visible.

Wheezing, choking up soot, Emma used the last of her strength to haul Killian Jones across the threshold and into the room, to the wardrobe, fumbling the latch open. Pulled them both in, and slammed it shut behind her.

For a moment, still nothing, nothing except the sound of the burning house, and screams. Cramped tight, smell of old wood, musty camphor. Then all of a sudden, she felt the void yawn open behind her, a jerk like a fishhook in her stomach, reached desperately for him and clutched, the only real thing, as the gates of the world swung open and they fell into the neverwhere.


	14. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

There was nothing anywhere but chaos, and beyond that, fire. They whirled and tumbled and tore through a screaming maelstrom of unmaking, falling stars and broken skies, as Emma tried madly to focus on something, anything, to pull them out of the void. She could see pathways spidering out in all directions, delicate webs of black gauze that led _otherwhere, _tugging them down, down, down. Hook's unconscious body was a dead weight as she clawed her fingernails into his torn leather jacket, trying to haul him up to a safer perch. She thought desperately that perhaps she should try to reach the wardrobe door again – but that would open back into the madness of Gold's burning mansion in Monaco, the height of the sorcerers' duel, and they could not. She didn't know how to direct herself or where to go. They were trapped again, the wind of the Place Between Worlds tearing at them hungrily as far off, she saw other doors swinging open in turn. A dark, demented dreamworld, a jungle island where no one ever grew old – a castle on a high crag above a black forest and a harbor – a multi-hued carnival fantasia of talking caterpillars and vorpal swords and a queen that screamed, "Off with her head!" – a world of grey steel and industrial smokestacks, a land without magic – faster and faster the doors spun around her. But she had to do this, had to. She had unwoven the time-trap, or memory spell, or whatever had imprisoned them in the vaults of St. Vitus, and she tried to work at this, but it all fell apart and fled away beneath her fingers.

"Hey, beautiful. . ."

The voice came from near her feet, startling her terribly, as she jerked and looked down to see a crack of blue under Hook's bruised eyelids. She reached for him automatically, his hand catching hers as she pressed it to his torso, wincing as she felt the damage. "Your ribs are broken."

"Is that why it hurts when I laugh?" He grimaced again, face contorting into a horrible grin. "Where are – where _are – _"

"I have no idea. Shut up, I'm trying to focus. We – the wardrobe in Gold's house, some kind of magic portal, I don't know what exactly – "

"Wardrobe?" he interrupted. Blood bubbled at the corner of his mouth. "Love, I – I think I – "

"No, I said. Be quiet." Emma hissed as the burning warp and weft of the magic scorched her fingers, catching at her as if one loose thread would unravel it – and them. "You got us into enough damned trouble, I'm going to have to – bloody _hell!" _She recoiled in pain again; it felt like she'd been stabbed, and that that, the pirate appeared to decide that he had waited through quite enough of her attempts to extricate them from their present difficulty. He reached out, pulled her against his chest with his hooked arm, closed his eyes and seemed to concentrate as hard as he could, and rolled them off the edge into the abyss.

Emma's scream of protest was immediately torn away, as she had no choice but to cling to him as hard and tightly as she could as they dropped like a stone, limbs entangled, her face buried in his chest, not wanting to see how this was inevitably going to end. Then the intangible black ley lines whirled up around them, metamorphosed into solid mahogany walls, and with an ungodly crash and banging, they fell out of the otherwhere and spun to a teeth-rattling halt in something that smelt very strongly of camphor and mint. Something hard and confined and square, something that did not give when Emma shoved at it, and in a mixture of relief, disbelief, and utter, blank bafflement, she realized that they had landed in another wardrobe. Hook was beneath her, having absorbed much of the impact, his legs jammed up against the wall and her curled atop him, still clutching each other, his breathing whistling in his chest like a stab wound. Aside from that, for the longest moment, there was nothing but shattered, ringing silence.

Emma was the first to recover. She scrambled off Hook and pushed the wardrobe door open, revealing a dim, dusty, shut-up sitting room. She stumbled across the floor and hauled at the heavy curtains veiling the windows, but they wouldn't open._ Where the hell did he take us? _Some safe house, a thieves' den, Jafar's headquarters? Clearly the trick of traversing the wardrobe lay not in trying to undo its magic, but in merely envisioning a destination. Hook _had _gotten them out of that horrible halfway-between, but wherever they had ended up instead was not liable to be much better. It might be giving the pirate too much credit to think that he could cook up another dastardly plot while half dead and wholly insane, but she had to be on her guard for everything around him.

Nonetheless, the only way to discern the answer appeared to be through direct questioning. She returned to the wardrobe and dragged Hook out of it onto the floor – then, huffing and straining, managed to lift him onto a claw-footed chaise and tie him to it with the silken cords from the window valances. When his eyelashes, at length, finally fluttered, she shoved down the lurch of abject relief in her stomach and ordered, "Where are we?"

His gaze flicked to hers, lips parting in a leer. "Oh, but you do look good. Commanding tone. _'Where are we?'_ Chills."

"You have a lot of sore places I can make you hurt." Emma accidentally knocked the chaise with her knee and smirked as his face contorted in agony. "And you had better explain what the hell just happened. Back there."

"Do I really need to, love? I inflicted some quality damage on my foe. And while my ribs may be broken, everything else is still intact, which is more than I can say for other bad days." He pulled at his bound wrists. "Oh, you're really into this, aren't you?"

Emma stood above him, implacable. "Talk."

"Going to torture it out of me? That _would _be fun for us both, as long as you have me tied up in bed. But look around, darling. I'm sure you know this place better than I do. Assuming we ended up where I was aiming, that is."

Emma glared at him, then turned on her heel and strode smartly to the door. It was locked, but for someone of her particular occupation, that was no trouble. She picked it with a hairpin, stepped out into the hall, and –

Oh God. She did recognize the view down the long, empty drive, the wild copses of hawthorn and yew trees, the hedges, the old Tudor beams of the house, the worn red carpeted staircase that led to the lower floors, the diamonded-glass windows. _Yorkshire. _They were in Yorkshire. More precisely, they were in Applewood Hall, Lady Regina Mills' remote, magnificent estate, the one she visited every Easter to see Henry and felt like a barely welcome guest the entire time. But what the – ? She knew that the pirate had been here before, as he'd used it to blackmail her into helping him rescue Will from the Tower, but – she still had the _shem, _Jafar and Gold and every other unscrupulous magician in Europe would be after them, and Hook had brought them _here, _laying a blazing breadcrumb trail to her son, to –

Furious, Emma spun around and stormed back inside the room. "You son of a _bitch!" _she hissed. "How _dare _you!"

"What was that, darling?" the pirate muttered, eyes closed. "Gratitude?"

"Why did you bring us here?"

"It was the only place I could think of that I knew had a magic wardrobe. Lady Regina mentioned it upon the occasion of my last visit, and she's no friend to the Royal Society. As well, you get to see your boy. What's the fuss?"

"What's the _fuss? _They're all after us! Henry was supposed to be safe here, and now they're going to be descending on it in swarms! And Jafar – did you notice the little fact that he arrived at the ball dressed as the Red Death, or were you too inconveniently unconscious at the time? What do you think that _means?"_

"Jafar?" That wrestled Hook's pain-bleared eyes open, fixing on her with a startling urgency. "Did he hurt you, love?"

"No," Emma said, disconcerted. "Not specifically. Although I'm sure he was planning to, once he found out that I had the _shem. _He was more interested in saving you from Gold, because he said your life belonged to him. Then the two of them started dueling, and. . . things went to pot."

"You got me out, evidently. What became of Scarlet and the queen?"

"I. . . don't know. Hook. Jafar said the two of you made a bargain. What was it?"

The pirate sighed painfully, turning his head away from her. "It's not important. Between him and me."

"Yes, well. Now you're here, which I assume means that he will be too, shortly. He's been one step ahead of everyone to date. You're putting my son in terrible danger. So I need to know."

After a long moment, Killian Jones glanced back at her. She thought he might, _might _have been about to speak, but she never found out. That was when they heard footsteps thumping up the attic stairs and pounding along the hall, and the next instant, the unlocked door of the room flew open. "Stop! Burglars! I'm going to make you wish you were never – _Mother?"_

"Henry?" Emma stared in utter shock at the person of her eleven-year-old son, gripping the fireplace iron with which he had clearly intended to manfully defend hearth and home, who in turn was staring with just as much shock back at her. When he ventured intrepidly to the attic on thinking that vagabonds had broken into the house, this was to say the least, not what he had expected to find. "Henry, I can – " _Explain? _No, she certainly could not.

Instead of asking her for one, however, Henry's gaze shifted past her to the chaise, and he broke into a huge smile. "Liam!" Abandoning the poker post-haste, he galumphed across the creaking floorboards and knelt solicitously at the injured pirate's side. "You brought her here to break the spell, didn't you? Just like I asked! That's – that's wonderful!"

_Liam? _Hearing the name gave Emma a turn, remembering the tall, handsome, steadfastly proper Royal Navy captain she had briefly met in Killian's memories. She supposed that he had chosen it as a convenient alias for his last sojourn here, though if she knew Lady Regina in the least, it had not weathered close scrutiny for long. She wheeled on them both, already looking thick as the proverbial thieves – which in this case, one of them very much was. "Is this about what K – what he was inventing about a magical vault filled with sleeping people? I didn't come for that! We don't have time, we can't – "

"Oh, he did tell you?" Henry looked desperately hopeful. "About the people and how you're the savior, the only one who can wake them up? Come on, if you hurry, we can do it right now. It was smart of you to wait to sneak in until Mother – Lady Regina, I mean – is gone. She went to Edinburgh, she won't be back until tomorrow at least!" He was almost dancing in anticipation, hopping from foot to foot. "Liam said he'd find you and pass on the message, and he did, Mother, he did!"

Trapped, Emma stared wildly back and forth between the two of them. She was rattled that Hook hadn't lied to her about what Henry thought, though just why she couldn't say, and furtherly rattled that Henry himself was now plainly convinced that this was why she was here. "Look," she said at last, feeling like a treed cat. "This is a misunderstanding. We did _not _come here on purpose, and honestly, we need to get out of here as soon as possible."

"But – " Henry looked crushed. "This might be the only chance we have! Mother's gone, she can't stop you, she – "

"What is all this about Regina stopping me from doing anything?" Emma pressed her fingers to her temples. "I thought she was just an ordinary aristocratic lady who needed money and agreed to raise you, not a – "

"No," Henry and Killian said in unison. "She's not."

"Marvelous," Emma muttered. "All right, even if there was a vault, which I'm not saying there isn't, I can't actually do magic, I can't save anyone. We don't have time, we – " At that moment she accidentally joggled the chaise again, Killian moaned in pain, and although she'd done the exact same thing on purpose earlier, she felt horrifically guilty. Not that she had any reason to. "We – just – need – "

"Is he hurt?" Henry interrupted, pointing at Killian. "He looks hurt."

"He's – he's – " Emma fumbled for an answer that would require the minimum amount of bald-faced lying. "He – well, he – "

"I've certainly been better, lad," Killian said wryly. "But don't trouble yourself."

"No, you're wounded. We need to find you a doctor." Henry screwed up his face and thought hard for a moment, then brightened. "I know! There's a man in the village, he came to London for the Great Exhibition and now he's touring England. He sells all kinds of potions and medicines and cure-alls, I'm sure he can help you. I'll go get him." And with that, and nary a by-your-leave, Henry raced out.

"Energetic lad, isn't he?" Killian remarked conversationally, though the strain in his voice showed just how much his ribs were hurting him. "Must take after you in that. Who was his father?"

Emma stiffened. "None of your business." She wanted to leave it at that, but something made her add, "Why do you ask?"

The pirate attempted a nonchalant shrug. "Reminds me of someone I knew once. That's all."

Emma stayed quiet, watching him warily. Given how long Killian had lived in the London underworld, and the fact that Neal, for all she knew, could still be part of it, it certainly wasn't out of the realm of possibility that the two of them had crossed paths or even worked together. But Neal had not been heard hide nor hair of since he had left her holding his stolen goods and done a bunk, and besides, he had always been talking about New York, how they should book passage on a steamer and start a new life in America. Likely that was what he had done to escape the heat of the law; there would be just as much work for him in the Manhattan magical black market or wherever else he had decided to take his talents. So Killian, if he had known him, couldn't have done so recently, but for some reason still held the memory close enough, after all these years, for Henry's face to bring it up. _Dangerous. Dangerous. _

This was more than she had let herself think of Neal in nearly as long, and she turned away, arms crossed tightly over her chest as if to hold herself together. The ticking of the old clock on the sideboard sounded oppressively loud, until at last she saw the smaller, lighter phaeton, rather than Regina's heavy black coach with its six massive matched Percherons, roll up the drive –whereupon Henry and an unfamiliar man in a dapper suit and top hat disembarked from it. He was carrying a large, much-patched suitcase slapped with bright stickers, and dutifully followed Henry into the house. A few moments later, she heard their footsteps creaking on the stairs.

"I'm back!" Henry blew through the door, face flushed and eyes bright with eager anxiety. "Here he is, just like I said."

"Ma'am, your servant." The newcomer doffed his top hat to Emma, speaking in a flat American accent. "Walsh, Patrick Walsh. Wizard, doctor, miracle-worker, purveyor of potions and panaceas that have made men rise from their deathbeds! Flew my balloon here to jolly old England all the way from Kansas Territory, will you imagine that? It's a wonderful world we live in. Now, if you'd like to examine a selection of my perfumes, paints and powders, perhaps a special charm or two? Not that a woman as lovely as you needs any – "

"I'm not here for your sales pitches," Emma said sharply. She pointed at Killian. "Do you have anything to help him?"

"Oh yes, yes. I'm sure we have just the ticket." Walsh unlatched his suitcase, which emitted a bang and a puff of smoke, and began to rummage industriously among the corked glass bottles inside, tenderly jacketed in green felt. "A drop of this cordial mixed into this elixir. . . one sip, sir, and you'll be right as rain." He shook the contents of one bottle into another, producing a second bang, and held up the result triumphantly: a vitreous green liquid that looked like an especially toxic version of absinthe. "For you, only a shilling sixpence."

Killian regarded the bottle with patent skepticism. "You expect me to pay you a shilling sixpence for that? Aye, it'll just knit my bones back together in a flash, is that it?"

"I sold all my Skele-Gro in Scotland – no damn idea what they do with it, drink it like whiskey? – but this is a brew of my own concoction that is, I daresay, much faster-working and with much fewer nasty side effects." Walsh smiled jovially, rubbing his hands together. "Tried, tested, and patented. Couldn't keep it in stock at the Great Exhibition. Had an elderly gentleman throw aside his cane and scandalize his wife, skipping out like a spring filly, after a sip! Every guarantee, sir, no risk, not even a – "

Ripping free of its restraining silken cords, Killian's hook shot out like a snake and twisted in Walsh's cravat, so hard that the so-called wizard choked, eyes bulging. "Do you think I'm a bloody idiot?" he snarled. "What the hell is in that fucking potion of yours aside from green dye and horse piss?"

"I – sir, gently, sir – cannot reveal – trade secrets." Walsh disentangled himself and edged back out of the pirate's range. "I understand, however, if a gentleman of your nature finds himself somewhat short on hard cash at the moment. Not to worry, not to worry, another bargain can be arranged. Such as. . ." He removed a small brass instrument from his jacket pocket, set it spinning with a flick of his thumb, and proceeded to walk around the room with it like a dowser, until he stopped by the chaise again – the instrument now glowing and whirling frantically. "Sir, what do you have in your pocket?"

Killian stared at him with cold, narrow eyes. "It's your damned business why?"

"Just tell him," Henry broke in. "He wants to help."

Killian grunted as if he very much doubted it, but after another look at the boy, sighed heavily and reached into the innards of his jacket, removing a much-worn military insignia attached to a torn-off piece of leather. "This. And no, you can't have it, so don't bloody bother asking."

"Really?" Walsh eyed him shrewdly. "Even with the enchantment?"

"I _beg _your bloody pardon?"

"The enchantment." Walsh plucked it from the pirate's unresisting hand; the effort to intimidate the wizard had left him white-faced and gulping in agony. "Quite a strong one. Real magic, high-quality. Here, let me take a look." He stashed away the brass instrument and removed a jeweler's loupe instead, which he affixed to his eye and bent over the medallion with a professional's acumen. "Dangerous bit of spellwork. Sure I can't change your mind? I'll take it off your hands – hand, sorry – for a song."

"I – beg – your – _pardon?" _Hook looked rather dangerous himself, broken ribs notwithstanding. "What do you think you're trying to pull? Give that back!"

"The enchantment," Walsh repeated, as if the other man was terribly dim. "It's of a new vintage, can't be more than a month old. Some sort of surveillance spell, most intricately done, aimed to collect the smallest details. Are you sure someone hasn't been watching you, my friend?"

Killian opened his mouth, clearly preparing for a blazing retort, but something occurred to him – and Emma – at the same time. Before the pirate could say anything, she moved closer to Walsh, looking over his shoulder. She could sense, though she couldn't say how, the faint waves of sinister magic pulsing off it, and suddenly, a great deal of previously mystifying events made total sense. "Him," she said, wheeling on Killian. "J – your _friend. _He enchanted that the first time you met him. That's how he's known exactly what you were going to do, all along."

"What?" Killian stared at her, rolled over with a grunt of pain, and tried to grab at the insignia – which, Emma saw now, was a Royal Navy crest, the word _Jones _etched beneath. "What are you talking about?"

"This. It belonged to your brother, didn't it? Your friend must have known, or guessed, it was the one thing you'd never part with." Emma felt cold at the depths of Jafar's manipulative ingenuity. "So whatever you've said, wherever you've gone, he's known it the instant you've done it."

Walsh glanced curiously between them. "May I be of some assistance here, folks?"

"No," Killian growled, at the same moment Emma said, "Yes. Can you dismantle it?"

Walsh turned the medallion expertly over and over, peering through the loupe. "Could be, but not easily, and I'd have to get some of the tools back at my balloon. And of course." He rubbed thumb and forefinger together. "It would cost you."

"You'd destroy it, you unscrupulous quack!" Killian tried to grab it back, but fell heavily onto the chaise, coughing up a lung; blood splattered his mouth, and Emma, alarmed, planted her hand onto his shoulder, holding him in place before he tried anything worse. "Give it!"

"Ho – Jones." Emma kept hold of him. "Think about this for a minute."

He eyed her, as if to say that whatever he _was _thinking was certainly not in concordance with hers, but at that moment, they were all distracted by the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and an imperious voice calling. "Master Henry? Master Henry! What on _earth _are you doing up there?"

Henry tensed. "Oh ballocks," he hissed. "Sidney. I'll head him off."

With that, while Emma was wondering if she possessed a remote ounce of maternal authority to reprimand him for swearing or if it would be utterly hypocritical of her to do so, Henry darted to the door, shut it behind him, and proceeded to butter up Sidney Glass, the butler, whom in her annual visits to Applewood, Emma had marked as being so far up Regina's arse that he could see sunlight on the other side. Sure enough, Sidney could be heard informing Henry that surely he was not up to anything of which his mother would disapprove, and demanding to know why Henry had taken the phaeton out to return with a strange man to the house. Henry was full of tales about how he had just wanted to buy some toys, adopting the perfect contritely guilty tone, and decided to bring Walsh back to mend some of his broken ones. As they listened to this performance through the door, Killian glanced sidelong at Emma and murmured, "Well, the lad's a born liar, I'll give him that."

"Gets it from his father," she answered automatically, then bit her tongue. She tensed, avoiding his gaze, as Henry was now dissuading Sidney from coming to take a look at the attic on grounds that he had made a terrible mess, and didn't want to cause extra work for the servants until he had tidied it up like a good boy. With suspicions mollified, or at least astute enough to realize that he was being dismissed, Sidney retired, and after a long pause, they then heard Henry hurrying back.

"That was close," he announced, cracking the door an inch and squeezing through, as if afraid the hellhounds of Cerberus would follow him in if he opened it all the way. "Don't worry, I'll think of something to distract him so we can sneak out. The vault's around the back, down some stairs. I know how to open it."

Walsh blinked. "Sorry. Vault?"

"Oops. Me and – and Miss Swan have an errand to do. You take care of Mr. Jones, all right?"

"Mr. Jones?" Walsh turned to look at his putative patient in surprise, who was glaring at him with open hostility. "Ah, right then. So for the elixir and the disenchantment, I'll cut you a deal. Just a pound and six for the lot."

"I'm not paying you a bloody penny. Especially not for your idea of a – "

"Wait," Emma interrupted, sensing that the situation was on the verge of getting out of control. "I – Henry, as I said, that isn't why we came here, and we need to leave as soon as possible. You don't know anything about this, and I'd rather it stayed that way."

"But why? I can help!"

"No, Henry. No, you can't, and I've already put you in enough danger. Regina's going to kill me, and then you, and then me again. We're just going to. . ." Emma cast madly about for a plan, then, one lighting upon her, glanced at Walsh. "You said something about a balloon?"

"I did, madam. If it may be of any use to you, simply say the word."

"Fine. All right. We're going to deal with – with that – " Emma waved a hand at the military insignia – "then, after. . .. are you going back to Kansas?"

The wizard scoffed. "Me? Go back there? After I have seen all the wide world has to offer? Surely not. I intend to move to California Territory and make my fortune selling to prospectors – it's said you can pick gold up right off the ground, not aether but the actual stuff, and worth far more in my opinion – then build myself a large green mansion and settle down."

Emma smiled wryly. "Why green?"

"Why, because I am quite fond of the color. That of emeralds, money – and your eyes." Walsh gazed at her. "If you will permit me the liberty, madam."

"It does sound lovely." _And normal._

"You are more than welcome to come with me. See the world, run our own traveling magic show – a lovely blonde assistant is worth her weight in gold – then find a place together. California, or New York, or. . . anywhere you wanted, really."

"You're as much a bloody gasbag as that ridiculous vessel of yours, Yankee," Hook muttered, in a voice nowhere near quiet enough to go unheard. "And for the _final _time, neither of us would take a drop of water from you if we were dying of thirst in the – "

"Actually." Emma smiled brightly. "We are. Very well, wizard. Work your magic, get us home, and we'll make you a rich man."

"Why." Walsh swept her a flourishing bow. "You never needed to ask."

* * *

An hour and sundry later, after an epically complicated operation involving the distraction of Sidney, Walsh sneaking out and returning with his balloon (which he landed on Regina's immaculately kept lawn) and an extremely unhappy Captain Hook being smuggled out the attic window, he and Emma were aboard. He had been of the vociferous opinion that they should chance the magic wardrobe again and to hell with the danger, but that was an infeasible prospect for several reasons. The first was that the only other place they knew for sure had a wardrobe on the network was, of course, Gold's mansion in Monaco – where they could not return in any circumstances. And if they returned to the Place Between Worlds without a clear idea of their destination, God only knew where, when, and if they would end up. Besides, Emma was convinced that Gold would work out how they had escaped – there couldn't be that many options – and have it watched, waiting for them to use it again. Given all these factors, therefore, the wizard from Kansas truly was their best option.

The first order of business had been to put a temporary silencer on the cursed medallion so it could not transmit their conversations – at least until Walsh worked out how to deactivate it completely. Emma had also wrapped it in several layers of black fabric and stuffed it under some oddment of furniture in the capacious gondola swinging from Walsh's balloon. It was more of a miniature airship than anything, but not so remarkable as to attract attention among the many other similar vessels, and they were sorely in need of inconspicuous transport right now. She felt a qualm of wondering what had happened to the _Roger, _back in Monaco, then reminded herself that she didn't care. Acquiring refuge and a safe hiding place, away from Henry, was the only priority right now. After that, they could worry about trivialities.

"Right," Emma said, when she had settled Killian in the gondola's narrow berth and returned to the pilot house, where Walsh was firing up the boosters. They shot off, skimmed across the lawn, and then quickly gained altitude, veering like a daredevil along the top of the trees, Applewood Hall falling away below. She should feel relieved, but it was only exhaustion. "How much is this going to cost?"

"Don't worry," Walsh assured her. "I know you're without funds at the moment, I shan't press for payment. Though. . . if you wished. . . perhaps a kiss, for a poor lonely wizard like me?"

Emma hesitated. But it was a currency she had paid many times, after all, and there were worse things he could have asked. So she stepped toward him, waited until they were fully airborne and she would not cause a crash, then turned his face to hers and touched their lips briefly. Then she started to pull away, but he put his hand on her cheek and held her there for a few moments longer. "You need a man, my dear, and I need a companion, a wife. So what do you say? Could you see us having a future together?"

"What?" Emma was shocked. "Are you mad? We – we only just met!"

"I know, I know. But there's a connection between us. Something special. I feel it, I know you do too. Don't you believe in love at first sight? Come on. Take a leap of faith."

"I don't. . .. that's very kind, but. . ." Emma looked around for something she could use to defend herself if he was determined to vehemently press his suit. "I'd need. . . time to think about it, I couldn't just. . ."

"It's fine. Take all the time you need. But you know, if you marry me, that would make you an American citizen, and it would protect you."

"Protect me? From what?"

"Charges." Walsh shrugged. "For being an accessory to the crime. When I turn the pirate in."

Emma stared at him for a split second longer, and then it hit. She felt numb, stupid, slow. "You," she said. Empty-handed, no gun, no weapon, trapped aboard his balloon at his mercy. "You – you know who – who he is?"

"Don't be silly." Walsh hit the throttle. "Of course I know who he is. The moment I saw him. His poster is up across Britain – do you think I'm stupid? Had to play it cool, though, until I snagged him. Now I've got Captain Hook, the most wanted man in the British Empire! I've hit the jackpot, baby! Anything I want, it's mine! The big break for the kid from Kansas. You wait, lil' darlin'," he added, adopting an exaggerated Western drawl. "Oh God, just you wait."

* * *

Will Scarlet coughed until it felt as if his chest was being split apart like firewood, his eyes were watering, and his throat was raw and cracked and he could taste blood, but he couldn't stop. Smoke billowed and towered in strange, fey colors and shapes, and he could hear breaking glass and crunching wood as the terrified guests fought to get out of the mansion by any means at hand. He had no idea where anyone had gone or what had happened to them, and briefly considered that the wisest plan in this situation was likewise to run for it, but instead he found himself plunging back into the inferno at the place where he'd seen Elsa fall, holding his sleeve over his mouth for what piddling good it did him. Bodies loomed and careered crazily in the blasted murk, some running past and some motionless underfoot, until he finally caught sight of an indistinct, huddled form, trying to sit up and pressing a hand to her bleeding head. "Oy! You! Let's step on it, now!"

Elsa stared at him, still in a daze, but took his hand and let him haul her desperately onto his back. He had a mad memory of carrying Penny in the same way as they navigated the chaos of the burning dance floor, ducked as a stray explosion from either Jafar or Gold ricocheted overhead, and finally by dint of sheer, unrelenting stubbornness, made it to the broken doors and piled through. Will didn't stop running until fresh cold night air slapped his face, he began gasping down gulps and gulps as it simultaneously delighted and tortured his seared lungs, and could hear the bells of the Monaco fire brigade as the unwieldy brass engine with its bucket crew blasted up the steep streets toward the mansion – intent on doing their civic duty, bless their soon-to-be-dead hearts. He, however, did not plan to join them in this endeavor, and dropped Elsa onto her feet. "Are these friends of yours going to bloody get here or not?!"

"I don't know!" Both of them screamed as a window blew out in the second story, covering their heads as glass fell like snow, and looked at each other in a sick acknowledgment of the fact that the Captain and Miss Swan were nowhere to be seen, likely trapped in there with no way out. Will felt his stomach lurch sickeningly – he'd nearly had to watch the bastard die in front of his eyes once this evening and that was more than enough – but running back in there was not about to do anyone, least of all himself, the barest bit of good. Instead he grabbed Elsa's hand and managed to slip them away, as the panicked survivors milled in aimless eddies. For a moment he hoped furiously that the bastards had just gone ahead and killed each other, but he already knew that it would never be that easy.

At long bloody last, after an adventure through the Monaco streets at high speed, avoiding incipient calamity by the barest measure, they skidded out of the alley that funneled into Port Hercules, ran flat-footed down the quay, and jumped aboard the _Roger. _"Do you even know how to fly this thing?" Elsa screamed, as Will bolted to the helm-housing and employed the time-honored method of hitting it and swearing until it lurched to life. "Or are you just – "

"No, not really, but that's not the question, is it?" Will bellowed back. He spun the wheel, trying to remember which bloody thingamajig Killian used to fire up the zeppelin, but only succeeded in making them lurch wildly from side to side like a seasick whale. "Go find Smee, he'll likely know at least how to – "

"_Smee?"_

"Porky beardy fellow with a red hat, bit ratty?" Will continued to wrestle the wheel, which by now had deduced that he was not its captain and had no apparent interest in cooperating with him as a result. "Bloody _hell, _old girl, I'm trying to do us a solid and save our arses, can you just work with me here for a godforsaken – "

"Look!" Elsa screamed, pointing up into the night, as several members of the crew were emerging to investigate why the ship had suddenly been possessed. Upon seeing Will and Elsa, they gaped, were clearly about to demand where Hook was, and then were communally distracted by what Elsa had just indicated – the sight of half a dozen dirigibles blazoned with _Kongeriger _colors, armed to the teeth, buzzing down out of the sky like an answered prayer. "They're here! We're saved!"

Will let out a rush of breath, relinquishing the wheel (which appeared equally glad to be rid of him) and watched the _Sj__ø__forsvaret _ships descend, fighting the thief's natural instinct to dig himself a convenient hole and disappear as the authorities closed in. Elsa looked almost overcome with relief, teary-eyed and trembling, and he supposed that his heroic part in her rescue (and he did say so himself) would likely dispose her to give him a reward or two, some nice Norwegian castle and perhaps a nice Norwegian girl to go with it. He was just trying to work out how you'd say Lord Captain Will Scarlet, Duke of This or That, when he noticed that the ships were landing close to every side, boxing the _Roger _in. Which could certainly be for ensuring the safety of their queen, aye, and dealing with a known pirate while they were at it. . . but there was a sudden cold chill on the back of his neck, and he'd not lived to the ripe old age of twenty-five in this line of work by ignoring it. "Wait a minute, Your Worship, I don't think – "

Elsa did not hear him. Still too relieved that her daring telegram maneuver had worked, that she was (or so she thought) about to be liberated from her long nightmare, returned to control of her country, and prepared to take revenge on her tormentors, she didn't see, did not make even an attempt to protest, as the _Kongeriger _airships threw out guy lines tied to grappling hooks and drew themselves board-to-board with the _Roger, _trussing her and trapping her in a trice. It was only then, far too late, that Elsa frowned, that the crew began to realize that this wasn't what she had been expecting, and a hatch on the lead airship swung open. A young man in full military dress, medals sparkling on his chest, stepped out and grinned. "Good evening, Your Majesty. Lovely to see you here."

Elsa's mouth opened and shut. No words emerged except a strangled, _"Hans."_

"_Prince _Hans, actually, but I won't be fussy." He waved a hand. "It was so kind of you to tell us where you were. We were very worried."

"You – " Elsa drew herself up, fury beginning to drown her shock. "You – self-serving, backstabbing, rank, vile, traitorous little – "

"Language, please. Won't you come aboard, and we can talk?"

"Over my dead body. Why should I do anything you say, you – "

"I was just waiting for you to ask." Hans gestured at a pair of his men stationed on the foredeck, and they reached down and hauled up the figure of a young woman with auburn hair in two braids, bound so tightly in ropes that she could barely move. "Your sister might want you to, for a start."

"_Anna?" _Elsa blanched, gasped something in Norwegian, and turned a look of hell and fury upon Hans of Denmark, who in Will's estimation really was setting new records for something rotten in the state of. "You – _you – "_

"Don't worry. She won't be hurt, as long as you play your part." Hans grinned. "You see, insulted as I was that she would choose to marry that idiot reindeer ventriloquist instead of me, it occurred to me that now I have the opportunity I have been waiting for all along. It looks so much better if I gallantly rescue you from a terrible fate, bring you back to the adoration of your people, and then, to show your gratitude, you marry me, joining Denmark, Norway, _and _Sweden in a mutual bright future. Don't you think?"

Elsa remained pale as a sheet. "Get stuffed."

"I don't think so." Hans turned to Will. "Which is where you're going to help us out, incidentally, if you want to avoid a date with the hangman at Execution Dock in London. Where's your captain?"

"Sorry," Will said. "Are you talking? All I can hear is a lot of gigantic farting noises."

Hans glared at him. "Don't play smart with me. _Where's your captain? _He has the legal authority to perform a marriage when a ship is in international waters, and that's what he's going to be doing, for Queen Elsa and myself. Then, of course, for the safety and well-being of Europe, we'll hand him over to the British Empire, creating a new and lasting peace and strengthening the Royal Society and the aether trade."

"Still not understanding you, mate. Send up a chap who speaks Arsehole, and he can translate."

"I will not warn you again." Hans brandished an apoplectic finger. _"Where is he?"_

"Gone," Will said. "Bite me."

"I'll be doing a bloody great deal worse than that if you don't take me to him. You're going to die if you don't cooperate, so don't think you can – "

"Calm down, you're goin' to rupture something. You need a hobby very badly, by the way. Knitting, perhaps, or bridge. Croquet's a stupid game in my opinion, runnin' around a garden and hittin' balls – though in this case, we'd all find it immensely beneficial if someone hit yours. But with such a small target, it'd be easy to miss."

"You will lead us to the Captain or – "

"Boo for you. Left the directions in your other pair of evil trousers, did you?"

Elsa made a choked sound, and even a few of the minions on the bridge appeared to be chewing their cheeks very hard. Seeing that his bombastic approach was backfiring, Hans changed tactics. "Very well. Think about what I can offer you. A full pardon, exemption from prosecution for any other crimes, a secure future. It all rests on you. You can bring peace to Europe. Be a hero."

Will regarded him for a long moment, then blinked. "Oy, what was that whistling sound?"

Hans frowned. "What whistling sound?"

"You didn't catch that? Well, it was the sound of all the fucks I don't give sailin' majestically over your head and off to have a long and beautiful life without you. I'm very proud of 'em. Must be how it feels like when your children get married."

Hans had heard enough. He gestured to the blue-uniformed soldiers lining the rails, who raised their muskets in unison. "Kill him."

"No!" Elsa lunged in front of Will. "You're doing no such thing!"

It was hard to say which of the men was more surprised by this. Will's jaw dropped, while Hans merely looked blank. Finally, at a curt motion from him, the soldiers stood down, but the tension remained crackling. Then, clearly struggling to regain control of the situation, the prince of Denmark turned on his heel, marched back to the bound and gagged Princess Anna, and jerked her head back, exposing her throat, as she whimpered and kicked and tried, to no avail, to get away.

"Very well, then," Hans said, breathing hard, and drew his knife. "I'll kill her."


	15. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

"Ah," Emma said, and smiled. "I see."

"You do?" Walsh beamed ingratiatingly back at her, steering the balloon higher into the twilit sky, as the shadows of the Yorkshire moors plotted themselves like black chessmen on a great game board far below. "Well, of course you do! It's the only sensible course of action! With the money we're gonna make from turning him in, we might never have to do another dishonest day of work in our lives! Tell me, sweetheart. New York, how does New York sound? I'll build that mansion bigger than the Vanderbilts, by George. Buy up all of Manhattan!"

"It sounds amazing." Emma snuggled up next to him. "I'm so glad you came along, Patrick. I've been trying my very best, but I just couldn't manage the pirate on my own, you know? I want this job over with, and him turned into the Royal Society where he belongs. If you fly us to London straightaway, you'll have my _everlasting _gratitude." She leaned in, breathing warmly on his neck, so as to allow the wizard's imagination to run rampant with what exactly that might entail. "However do you manage? It looks so complicated."

"Not at all, not in the least," Walsh assured her. "So simple, a monkey could manage it. This throttle here controls the pitch and yaw, and this panel the gas in the balloon – fills, drains." He flipped the bronze switches in illustration. "This one is for the takeoff and landing. I'm still working on a few modifications of my own invention, but that's the gist of it. Once I have a proper laboratory, I'll be able to sink my teeth into it, but – "

Turning around in smug anticipation of her admiration, he instead met the business end of a heavy metal fitting, swung directly into his face with a sickening splitting-fruit sound; he staggered, eyes rolling back in his head, and dropped like a stunned ox. Emma vaulted over him, jammed the throttle into place to buy herself a few seconds, then reeled in the extra rope from the mooring line, dragged Walsh's unconscious body into the cargo hold, and tied him hand and foot, cinching the knots as tightly as she could with shaking fingers. She pulled out her handkerchief and gagged him with it for good measure, then sprinted back to the pilot house just as the balloon was beginning to veer dangerously. She fought the controls until she got it leveled out; it felt like trying to drive an especially uncooperative rhinoceros, a particular exotic animal she had once seen at the London Menagerie. Once this was achieved, she unrolled the chart from its shiny brass case and took a quick, amateur read of their position. Aerial navigation was not her specialty, but this wasn't the first time she'd been forced to hijack a craft, and she laboriously cranked them around to point north. It was an atrocious gamble, but then again, they weren't exactly spoiled for choice just now.

The balloon lurched, swung, and abruptly shot forward as Emma opened the throttle and pumped in more gas, keeping a wary eye on the dials on the instrument panel. She didn't know how long it would take to fly to Norway from here, though it couldn't be _that _long, and while she was well aware that Prince Hans of Denmark was in the middle of trying to stage a coup, she also had to hope that Elsa's emergency message had gotten through somehow, and the loyalists were mustering for battle. True, they could just as easily stroll into a swarm of waiting Royal Navy airships there as anywhere else, but it was the only possible option Emma could think of. She muttered a brief prayer to St. Jude and hit it.

The next order of business was to darken all the lights. There would be patrols off the coast of Britain, and the balloon carried no guns, no cloaking device, no weapons of any kind; she felt a pang of missing the _Roger _and its heavy cannon and menacing long nines. She fumbled at the controls until she found the switch that snuffed the thick glass lanterns, then had another idea, wedged the throttle back into place, and climbed precariously out onto the running board, siphoning out the extra gas and feeding it into the central combustion engine that powered the balloon. Then she slid back down, fighting vertigo, and shut the storm flap again. Breathing hard, she returned to her post, spotted a pair of goggles and pulled them on, and blinked as the world turned vividly, incandescently green. She flicked through the lenses until she found the set that sharpened her vision the most, and settled in to begin her new career as a balloon pilot.

They were out over the choppy, turbulent North Sea before long, swerving and dropping as the screaming wind caught and flung them like a spoiled giant tired of its plaything. Emma's knuckles strained keeping them on course, the balloon rollicking in the tempest; she could see mountainous white-frothed waves rolling and crashing below, the spray fouling the windscreen faster than she could wipe it off. She felt as if they were reaping the whirlwind, about to be torn out of this existence and tossed into another one altogether, and knew that the _Moskstraumen, _the feared Maelstrom, lay off the coast of Norway somewhere, a roaring void that sucked down ships more eagerly than any Charybdis. At least the bad weather would confuse and throw off anyone out hunting for them, as Gold wouldn't be so foolish as to only keep the wardrobe network under close watch. She gunned the throttle again, trying to ignore the scrape and whine, chasing the elusive promise of land that shimmered on the chart.

At last, after a rogue wave nearly caught the bottom of the gondola, they finally crossed onto land and over a forbidding wall of cliffs, a massive fjord that rose straight from the water for hundreds of feet. A heavy downdraft pulled at the balloon, and Emma almost tore the throttle out trying to maintain their lift. She was aware of a sparking, straining whiteness at the edges of her vision, her magic begging to be used, to save them as she had saved the _Roger _during their voyage to Prague, but she didn't dare let it out from under rein. It was too powerful, she couldn't control it, it would tear them all to pieces. She pushed it down more fiercely the more it struggled to get free; it felt like trying not to be sick, but worse. The gauge was running dangerous low. She must have burned all kinds of fuel trying not to crash into the sea, she couldn't –

"Swan. . ."

The voice was so faint that she almost didn't hear it, and then she did, and nearly had the life scared out of her. Hook, chalk-white with pain, one hand pressed to his ribs and the other bracing himself on the wall. "Swan. . . what did you. . . where the devil is our gracious host – "

"Tied up below. Long story." Emma refused to admit that he had been right not to trust Walsh, that she had been so determined not to trust Hook himself that she totally disregarded his blatant dislike of the con man, writing it off as nothing more than petty jealousy. "I'm trying to make it to Christiana, but I don't know if I can."

Hook stared at her, then laughed, with apparently genuine delight. "You stole the arsehole's balloon out from under his nose and took him prisoner? Christ, lass, you make the hell of a pirate. Christiana, you say? _Norway? _What do you think we'll – where _are _we? "

"Somewhere in its general vicinity. If we don't crash. You shouldn't even be up! You have broken ribs, you idiot!"

"If we crash, that will be decidedly least of my concerns," he pointed out, with a certain morbid pragmatism. "Budge up, love. Now."

Emma hesitated, then moved, and the pirate slid into the pilot's seat with a muffled groan, hook holding the throttle steady as his hand flew over the panel, making adjustments. Some of the whining and clunking cut out, they gained a precious bit of altitude, and skimmed like a feather over the wild, raw, rugged territory below. Sometimes Hook gave terse commands for Emma to hit that booster or turn that dial, and she did, the two of them doing their damndest to inform the balloon that it wanted to keep flying when it was protesting that it really did not, thanks. Emma thought she could see a faint sketch of a city coming into view on the far horizon – smoke and smog and streetlights and spires – but couldn't be sure. She got a glance at the gauge again; they were running hard red, and she couldn't hear the noise of the engine anymore, but somehow, Killian was keeping them airborne. He maneuvered them as elegantly as a master artisan, catching this current and than one, ducking them lower and lower and trying to burn off as much of their speed as possible without sending them into a stall that would drop them like a rock.

As for where they were arriving with such haste, it was now most definitely recognizable as a city. Neat whitewashed Nordic churches, a cathedral bell tower, a castle, a grid of medieval streets, an old wall, and a harbor completely blockaded by a giant cliff of ice, glazing over the heavy-laden steamers that lay idle at anchor. Stars sparkled coldly, the streetlamps were starting to somersault, and it was then when Emma realized that it was not a matter of if they crashed, but where. There was a broad stone plaza ahead that Killian seemed to be aiming for, and as they hurtled in at would very likely prove to be actual breakneck speed, he bellowed, _"HOLD ON, LASS!" _and braced.

Emma followed his lead, not a moment too soon. The next instant, the impact rocked up her from head to toe, crushing her wind out like a punch, and over and over they went, cartwheeling as the world came undone, over and over and over. There was a hideous scraping, hissing sound as they spun and skidded and went end-over-end, the gondola breaking to pieces, then finally fetched to a crumpled, spitting halt against something that looked like, from this inopportune angle, a large ceremonial fountain, likewise iced over in the eternal winter its queen had cast upon this place. There was nothing but the shatter of breaking glass and the smell of burning silk.

The second they stopped moving, Emma did. Bruised and terrified and running on sheer adrenaline, she grabbed hold of Killian, pulled his sword out, and cut them free of the tangled swathes of cloth. Saw a spark run along the jagged remnants of the gondola, and then catch. A pillar of flame went up like the one that must have led the Israelites by night, and the balloon began to explode.

"Swan. . ." Killian staggered. "Swan. . . run. . ."

"Wait!" Emma stared back at the flames. "Wait – I – Walsh – "

"Let him die! Who gives a rat's arse about him? You couldn't be bothered to get Scarlet and the queen out of Gold's, and now you'll risk yourself for – "

"No, I – " And with that, she pulled loose and sprinted back inside, running on the wall, everything at wrong angles, coughing and wheezing, until she reached the cargo hold. Whipped out her corset busk, the only sharp item she had to hand – Killian's sword would have been no use in the close quarters – and sawed madly through the ropes until Walsh fell. She seized him by the heels and pulled him back, almost incapacitated by the smoke, until she saw the way out, framed like the gate from hell, and toppled headlong onto the freezing cobbles. Dragged the comatose wizard a suitable distance from his burning vessel, then crawled on her hands and knees, hacking up a lung and eyes streaming, toward Killian. She got hold of him and puled his head down just in time as the balloon sprayed shrapnel everywhere, clattering and hailing down around them. As secret entrances went, they had failed with literally flying colors.

Shouts were spreading from house to house. Sobbing with the effort, Emma wrapped her arms around Killian's chest and tried to get them farther away, but she couldn't, she _couldn't. _She fell back again and was just about to give into her sore desire for blessed unconsciousness, when she heard footsteps and something else, something like hoofbeats, pounding down toward them. The next instant, a tall, blonde young man and a reindeer, wearing identical shocked and suspicious expressions, appeared upside down in her field of vision. One of them (Emma thought the former, but was losing her grip on reality, and could not be sure) demanded, _"HVA I HELVETE?"_

"Elsa," Emma croaked, with her last shred of strength. "ELSA!"

And with that, finally and mercifully, the lights went out.

* * *

Given the circumstances, combining the crash landing and her certainty that whoever had found her was in Gold and/or Prince Hans' immediate employ, Emma had not necessarily expected to ever wake again. Nor would she have entirely minded if she hadn't, because the first thing she was aware of was pain. That and an overpowering smell of reindeer, which she seemed to be lying on. A blanket, also smelling of reindeer, had been tucked around her, and a makeshift pillow, smelling of reindeer, intensely, propped up her head. She groped out a hand and encountered rough hay, and her malfunctioning eyes slowly made out the shape of a high-beamed, sharp-prowed Scandinavian barn overhead. They, or at least she, appeared to have been hidden here for purposes unknown by equally unknown persons, and she tensed, preparing to sit up and fight their way out as best she could in her present state, which wasn't very.

"Calm down." A man's voice spoke above her – in English, though with a noted accent. "I'm not going to hurt you. Easy, there. Sorry about the accommodations, but the palace is crawling with Danes."

"You. . ." Breathing hard, Emma once more attempted to lever herself into a vertical position. Her rescuer, if you were going to call him that, was leaning against a stall across the way; they were in fact in a barn, and he was the blonde man she'd seen right before checking out of the proceedings. "Who are you?"

"Kristoff." He took off his felt cap and crushed it between his fur-mittened hands. "Queen Elsa's brother-in-law. Probably don't look like what you were expecting, huh?" A chuffing sound came from the stall behind him, and he glanced back in annoyance. "Hey, nobody asked you!"

"Are you. . ." For a moment, Emma was afraid that her combined tribulations had sent her permanently cuckoo. "Are you talking to that reindeer?"

"His name's Sven." Kristoff regarded the antlered beast with pride. "He helped get you and your friend there out of the plaza after you crash-landed. We were being held prisoner too, but after His Royal Shittiness flew out of here in a hurry, we managed to get free. And when I find him, I swear I am tearing him limb from limb with my bare hands."

"Brother in law." Emma pressed her fingers to her aching head. "So you're. . . married to the queen's sister?"

"Princess Anna is my wife, yes," Kristoff said tersely. "Hans took her. You said something about Elsa, that was why I didn't just leave you to get peeled off the pavement by his hired trolls – although that's an insult to trolls, I know a lot of very nice trolls. Do you know where she is?"

"Actually, yes. She's in. . . she's in Monaco. She sent a message trying to get the armed forces to fly down and rescue her, but Hans must have intercepted it somehow. We were with her, but now we're. . . not. Obviously." Emma waved a hand. "Do you think that was where he headed?"

"Possible. Possible." Kristoff crunched his cap convulsively. "Where did you find her?"

"Elsa? In Prague. Long story." Emma grimaced, then glanced sidelong, espying Killian Jones still unconscious next to her in the straw. She wondered if Kristoff's charity would abruptly run out if she told him that she had last seen Elsa down for the count and bleeding after being knocked out by Jafar, and that the mansion had subsequently turned into hell on earth. "My. . . my companion, he's hurt, do you – "

"Here." Kristoff pulled something out of his jerkin: a brown glass bottle. "Skele-Gro. Last bottle at Oaken's. Best I can do."

"Wonderful," Emma said fervently, snatching it from him and scrambling across the hay to Killian. She slid a hand under his head, lifting him gently until his bruised eyelids fluttered, and uncapped it. "This isn't going to be pleasant, I'm sorry," she whispered. "But it'll help."

"What the bloody hell. . . is that?" Apparently compos mentis enough to put up a struggle about taking his medicine, like any good five-year-old, Killian pulled a face. "Smells like goat vomit."

"Just drink it," Emma snapped, finite supply of tender loving care exhausted in the face of his stubborn recalcitrance. She forced it into his mouth and refused to remove it until he swallowed, at which point his eyes bugged and he made noises indicative of extreme discomfort as his fractured ribs reknitted at high speed. She watched him without sympathy as he rolled to and fro on the hay, then said coldly, "Drama queen."

"Hmm," Kristoff said, observing with scientific interest. "That worked better than I expected."

"Easy for you to say, mate," Killian growled, coughing and grimacing again. When the red-hot pins and needles had apparently subsided to some degree, he spat weakly and muttered, "Is there even any damned food?"

"Carrots." Kristoff waggled a bunch helpfully, then shot an annoyed look at the reindeer and added, "No, these aren't for you, greedy guts. Or at least they're probably not."

"Carrots." Killian stared at the other man as if he had started juggling lemon pies and singing the _Marseillaise_. "You must be bloody joking. Give me rum."

"Fresh out of that, I'm afraid. Here, Sven, he doesn't appreciate them." Kristoff separated a carrot out and tossed it into the stall, whereupon ecstatic ungulate crunching noises emanated. "Up in the palace, maybe, but considering that the entire place is crawling with – "

"Never underestimate the lengths I'll go for a drink, mate." Killian dragged his hand unsteadily across his forehead. "And my ship. I want her back. She's presently in the same place as your sister-in-law and, unless I much miss my guess, your wife. I find it impossible to countenance that no arrangement can be reached."

Kristoff eyed him with patent skepticism. "I barely patched you together from the last calamity, and you've already got another one on the brain? I'm not sure that's a good – "

"What am I supposed to do?" the pirate snapped. "Recline here in the straw and dine on carrots? They took your wife, I seriously doubt you're going to say, 'Oh, that's a pity,' and wander off footloose and fancy free – though you could stand to wander repeatedly in the direction of a bath, if you ask me. Or is it that you don't – "

Kristoff balled a fist and hit his knee. "Of course I'm not going to let them get away with it! But they took or grounded all the airships, and no one knows how to melt Elsa's ice wall to let the steamers out. And I've been out of prison for about twelve hours, maximum. I'm still notably short on a heroic plan."

"Well," Emma said hesitantly, "we have an airship. Of a sort. I mean, we did."

"You mean that balloon you crashed? Without a miracle, that thing isn't flying any time soon, I can promise you that."

"That reminds me. What about – "

At that moment, however, they were interrupted by the sound of a moan from the hayloft, and Kristoff stood up. "Hold on, that'll be the third one." He disappeared up the ladder, whereupon they heard strident vituperation from Walsh, accusing them of holding him unlawfully prisoner and that in _America _they had rules about this sort of thing and moreover they had destroyed his very valuable balloon and all the instruments of his livelihood, and he would be hiring the nearest attorney and suing several degrees of excrement out of them at his earliest convenience. Kristoff, in turn, replied only in Norwegian and in apparent total incomprehension, which incensed the wizard further. He was just repeating his demand to talk to someone who spoke English, louder and louder as if this would make Kristoff understand it (though of course he understood perfectly well) when Emma, deciding it unfair to let their rescuer take the brunt of it, climbed the ladder and appeared next to him. "Hello, Walsh."

"Ah. . . my dear. . ." Walsh attempted a weak version of his previous obsequious smile. "Surely you're going to help me sort out this. . . present difficulty?"

Emma calculated swiftly that he did not appear to remember she was the one who had put him in it, and saw no use to be gained by reminding him. "That depends," she said sweetly. "We are terribly sorry about your balloon, that was an unfortunate accident. But we might be able to repair it, if you cooperate."

"You still cannot replace all the merchandise that was lost," Walsh grumbled, though less vehemently than in his confrontation with Kristoff. "How did we end up wherever we are, at the mercy of this – this sheep-shagging rustic?"

"A terrible storm," Emma lied smoothly, which had the advantage of being halfway the truth, while in the background Kristoff looked insulted at the slur on his sexual proclivities – if he _was _finding company in the stables, she presumed it was with reindeer, not sheep. "A fitting fell and knocked you unconscious. I had to take over and try to steer and keep us from being thrown into the sea." She allowed her lip to tremble. "I was so _frightened, _Patrick."

"Ah," Walsh said, blinking, still belligerent but somewhat mollified by her attractive feminine distress. He raised no protest to her promising to fetch him a blanket and food, and then as soon as they were down the ladder, she jerked her head at Kristoff, who followed her obligingly into a corner.

"Impressive," the prince (was he a prince? He was married to a princess, she supposed that technically he was) said, raising a thick blonde eyebrow. "I actually think he bought it. Don't tell me why, I don't need the details, but I'm guessing he's someone you would prefer to have out of the way while all of this is going on."

"Yes." Emma blew out a breath. "Can you manage that?"

Kristoff gave her the sort of stung stare common to men everywhere who had just had their prowess questioned, and she raised her hands in surrender. Then he went back out, climbed to the loft again, and as Walsh started into further declamations on the sorry state to which he had been reduced, Kristoff sighed deeply, cocked a fist, and thumped him soundly on the head again. Then he rolled the wizard in a stable blanket, tied it neatly at both ends like a sausage prepared for curing, slung it over his shoulder, and descended into the main stalls. He carried it over to the one housing the reindeer, dropped it in, and the reindeer (Sven, Emma thought dazedly, right, it had a name) with an aspect of malevolent glee, sat daintily atop it.

"Good boy," Kristoff told him, and fed him another carrot for his trouble. Then he clapped his hands and turned toward Emma and Killian. "Right. What's the plan?"

"Er – " They glanced at each other, momentarily at a loss, until Killian cleared his throat. "I'm assuming that Hans left some sort of lackeys in charge, when he took Anna and flew off to Monaco to intercept?"

"Aye." Kristoff scratched his chin. "But are you suggesting we storm the castle? Even three of us – four, sorry, Sven – wouldn't get very far, especially if we didn't have an airship. Don't get me wrong, I'd love to kick their arses, but shouldn't we figure out how to fix the balloon, and then fly off to pummel Hans and rescue Anna and Elsa?"

"You said it couldn't fly again," Emma objected. "It's wrecked."

"I said it couldn't fly again without a miracle." Kristoff eyed her. "You have magic, don't you?"

"Wh – what?" Emma felt as if she'd spilled something disgusting down her dress in public, and everyone was staring at her. She tensed. "How do you know that?"

"Calm down. I've spent a lot of time around Elsa, remember? Yours is different – warmer, for a start, but it's there. Could you do it? Fix it?"

"I – no, I couldn't. I can barely control it. No."

"But you could," Killian interjected. "You put the _Roger _together with barely thinking about it. I've seen the power inside you. You can do it, love."

"That was by accident! Like you said! And it almost killed me!" Emma wanted to withdraw like a turtle into its shell from everyone expecting her to make things better, from Henry with his enchanted sleeping people in Regina's vault, to Kristoff and Killian thinking she could whip Walsh's balloon back into shape. "I can't."

"We don't exactly have a lot of options, Swan," Killian pointed out tersely. "And while his casa may be our casa for the time being, I can't be the only one who isn't all that eager to continue the acquaintance. No offense, of course."

"None taken." Kristoff looked wry. "Well, if you're not going to try to repair the balloon or melt the wall, I suppose we could try to go overland to Sweden. Elsa has a summer palace in Stockholm, there has to be a way to get out there. But it would take a lot of time, and it would be dangerous, very dangerous. Are you sure you can't – "

"No, I said. I – "

"Emma." Killian startled her just then, taking her hand in his and looking deeply into her eyes. "You're our only crack at this, love. I know you're scared, but if we're going to get back and deal some just desserts, you have to."

"Just desserts for _you, _you mean!" Emma yanked her hand out of his and backed away. "Why am I not surprised that yourself is the only thing you care about? You nearly got all of us killed with that idiotic stunt at Gold's mansion, and to judge from the way he was slinging fireballs at Jafar right afterwards, you didn't do him any actual damage whatsoever. We've been running from London to Prague to Monaco to Yorkshire and now to Norway, and you've done nothing but dig us in deeper. I am not risking my life to perform magic I don't know anything about and can't control, just so _you _can go back and retrieve your ship and try to kill Gold again!"

Killian flinched, but said nothing. Kristoff glanced back and forth between them with a frown, then said doubtfully, "We could try asking the trolls, perhaps. But they're more into the business of baffling cryptic wisdom, not useful things like magical transports when you need them."

"Trolls," Killian muttered. "Why am I not surprised?"

However, on hearing the rest of Kristoff's sentence, he froze. "Wait a minute. You – Christiana has a market, doesn't it? Who trades there?"

The other man blinked. "Merchants from across Europe, usually. But since the blockade and the coup, I haven't seen a single – "

"Never mind that. Have you seen the Irish Travellers there? Bright painted wagons, do tinsmithing and charm work, tend to be numerous and red-headed. Anything?"

"Er. . . from time to time, I think," Kristoff ventured. "But they have a reputation as gypsies and thieves, they're not exactly the most welcome visitors in an honest place of – "

Killian waved that off. "Never mind. It's enough to know they've been here. That means there's a waypoint somewhere in the city, and I can find it, if I have a bit of time. Then, well. . . it means _I _can get out, at least. You two aren't part of the clan, so I can't be sure, but perhaps I could persuade them."

"Well, persuade them," Kristoff said ungraciously. "I've stuck my neck out quite a bit for you and your wife, it seems only fair for you to help out with me and mine."

"My w – ?" Both Killian and Emma choked; it was difficult to say who was more mortified by this case of mistaken identity. "Ah. . . no, mate. We're not married. Not in the least. She's a formidable and beautiful woman, but not destined for a one-handed pirate with a drinking problem like me."

Kristoff looked taken aback at the bitterness in the captain's voice, then shook his head. "You argue like you are, at any rate," he commented. "And chin up. I certainly never expected to be marrying a princess of Norway, but here I am. Some of us are just fixer-uppers."

"You're an inspiration to us all." Having evidently reconsidered his previous low opinion of their rescuer, Killian was now regarding him with avid interest. "How did that work with you two? Apart from her not having a nose, it seems."

"That was not a deal-breaker," Kristoff said with great dignity. "And it's simple. When it's true love, there's nothing you wouldn't do. Even if it's your life for hers."

A very strange expression crossed Killian's face at that, and he glanced away. Emma, however, thought it was best to nip this conversation in the bud. "Right then. This Traveller waypoint. It sounds like it's our best option. So, Hook, you're going to find it, and work out how to make it take all of us. Then we can figure out what we're actually going to do."

"As you wish, my lady." The pirate got to his feet, swept her a bow slightly too deep to be entirely heartfelt, and headed out of the stable, with only a slight limp to show for his recent misadventures – unpleasant as it was, Skele-Gro did the trick. That left Emma and Kristoff (one could not entirely count the blanket-wrapped form of Walsh, still getting a faceful of reindeer arse) sitting uncomfortably side by side, faced with the prospect of making small talk until he returned. It had been several minutes already when Kristoff said, "So, he has it bad for you. You noticed that, didn't you?"

Emma looked down at her fingers, twisted in her laps. "Oh, really? That's unfortunate for him."

"Why's that?"

"I have no interest in talking about this, especially with you." Emma shot him a scorching glare, but if she had expected him to be cowed, she was swiftly disappointed; he had an icily regal blonde woman with uncontrollable magic and high emotional walls in the intimate family tree, after all. "He might, but I don't feel that way about him. Let's leave it at that."

Kristoff made a noise that conveyed utmost skepticism paired with the fact that, this once, he had decided to be polite and not say so. That attempting having been shot down, they continued to sit in silence until to Emma's surprise and disquiet, she felt a buzzing in her pocket. Couldn't think what on earth she had in there, reached in – and recoiled.

Sitting in her palm was Killian's military insignia, the one that had belonged to his brother, that Walsh had said was bound by a powerful surveillance spell. But she'd left it behind in the wreckage of the burning balloon, wrapped in black cloth and muted – it wasn't supposed to be able to hurt them, to track them – they were supposed to be _safe –_

As she cupped it in her fingers, a small, pearlescent image rose up like silvery gas, swirling and coalescing into the shape of a face, quickly acquiring form and definition. A moment later, looking somewhat ruffled but otherwise no worse for wear, Jafar smiled at her. "Miss Swan. What a delight."

"I beg your – I _beg _your pardon?" As if she thought he had somehow reached the wrong person.

"I am, of course, delighted to see that you escaped the imbroglio at your employer's place of residence," Jafar went on graciously. "And that you have found safe harbor in – Christiana, is it? Norway? Well, that is a convenient and perversely fitting place to keep you for the time being, and I _do _advise that you not even think about trying to leave."

"Excuse me? Do you think I'm – "

"I suppose you a sensible woman. Within limits." Jafar shrugged, and then lifted the transmitter on his end, sweeping it around to give her a good long look at where he was standing: on the long, manicured lawn still cut with long scuffmarks where Walsh's balloon had taken off, with Applewood Hall sitting serenely in the background. "After all, with Lady Regina unavoidably detained in Edinburgh, and you enjoying the hospitality of the frozen north, there is nothing to stop me and your charming lad from getting very well acquainted. I think I'm going to go in for supper. Maybe help Henry with his Latin. Such a fiendishly difficult language, isn't it?"

"No." Emma's hand had gone numb, even as she was horribly aware of how impotent her denial was. "No, don't you – don't you – "

"Oh, my dear, there is nothing to fear." Jafar's smile broadened. "As long as you stay exactly where you are, and make no move to leave or do anything else until I happen along to fetch you. Otherwise, Latin conjugations are the very least of the torments your son will endure. Do I make myself clear? Ah, I see that I do. Splendid. _A bientôt, ma cherie."_

And with that, and a small pop, he vanished.

* * *

There was a hanging, towering, impossibly fraught silence, in which the world seemed to dwindle down to the two of them: her and Will, and the point of the knife that Hans was holding to her sister's neck. Elsa's magic bubbled frantically in her fingers, begging to be used, searing with a cold so potent that even she felt it, but it roared on the very edge of control, about to rip her away and sweep her down to drown. She felt sick, felt only burning where her veins had been, pumping molten iron instead of blood – she was too hot now, her magic was ice, she was snow, she couldn't survive the thaw – as Jafar's poison worked deeper into her, curling tendrils around her heart, daring her to do it, daring her to die. She would if she had to, to save Anna – but Hans had thrust her in front of him, using her as a human shield, and Elsa was terrified of hitting her by mistake. The world spun in the balance, like a coin flicked with a thumb.

"Oh, you miserable rotten bugger," Will said loudly, breaking the spell. "Look at what a brave fellow you are, threatenin' a girl all tied up – afraid she'd beat you to an idiot pulp otherwise, is it?" Hands up, he moved out from behind Elsa, straight into the line of fire for all the soldiers pointing their muskets at him, and her heart visited her throat again. "Now go on, shoot an unarmed man, just to get the gold star on your cowardly arsehole award. I'm sure that'll be a lovely honeymoon present for the queen."

"Stop," Hans ordered, eyes bugging out, knife digging further into Anna's neck – enough to send a fat drop of blood rolling into her nightdress, and Elsa moaned in fear. "I'll kill her!"

"And then you will never sleep again, 'specially if you're proposin' to marry the other sister, because the instant you close your eyes, she'll kill your arse so dead they could set you up as a Tory backbencher and nobody'd notice the difference. Just between you n' me, this isn't one of your smarter plans, mate. Then again, you could have realized it was a stinker well before you got to this point, and gone back to tryin' to take over the nearest public convenience, not a country. A really nice one, with brick and runnin' water. I believe in you."

"Shut up," Hans ordered, though with a degree less conviction than previously. His hand dropped an inch, his attention still fixed on Will, and that was his fatal mistake. Anna didn't have use of arms or legs, but she did have her head, and she butted him ferociously under the chin like an enraged ram, making his teeth clack madly and dazing him. Hans staggered backwards as Anna hopped to the edge, caught Will's eye, then jumped.

He braced, and she hit him the next instant, knocking them both flat and sending them rolling across the _Roger's _deck, as he threw himself atop her in an expectation of gunshots. But they didn't come, and he fumbled for his pocket knife, cutting through the ropes until she could struggle free, whereupon she fled straight to her sister.

Elsa caught her and held her tightly, chin resting on her head, as she glared utter bloody murder at a suddenly pants-down Hans. He still held all the military power, the armed soldiers, the hovering airships, but he had just lost his best trump card and if Anna strengthened Elsa enough to do magic despite the poison, she could freeze everyone, summon up a howling tempest, call down a blizzard on this pleasant autumn night in Monaco. Will, tasting blood in his mouth, staggered to his feet and planted himself defiantly at Elsa's side, just so there would be no confusion. She shot an odd sidelong glance at him, but did not take her focus off her adversary. "Well?" she demanded. "Why don't you just give up now, Hans, and spare yourself the embarrassment?"

"Me?" Hans glared at her. "You think this is my fault? I was a nice man until you and your little bitch sister made a laughingstock of me – I have _twelve _older brothers, did you even think of me and what I had to – "

"And let me guess," Will said. "Every one of 'em kicked your bum for bein' a sorry wanker. I applaud the service they did to society, and think you should trot on home to let 'em get going again. Dozen is a lucky number, didn't you know?"

Hans inflated. "I will_ not _listen to a moment more of this folderol and – "

"Oh, please," a bored voice said behind him. "It's no wonder that no one has bothered to teach you the first thing about power and how to use it, dearie. This entire blustering spectacle – pointless. Supremely pointless. Disturbing the peace and quiet of the neighborhood, as well as making yourself look, as our friend Mr. Scarlet points out, a fool."

Elsa went stiff. Recognized it all too well, from endless negotiation sessions first extravagantly polite, and then slickly, charmingly deadly. "Gold."

"Good evening, Your Majesty." Rumpled, soot-and-blood-stained, and looking at the dark edge of insanity himself, rather than the well-groomed public façade he liked to maintain, the President of the Royal Society smiled at her. Then he made a careless gesture, and Hans and the Danish soldiers toppled like dominoes. "I've been trying so long to have a little chat with you, and with young William Scarlet – I _did _have him safely shut up in the Tower, but it seems to have unaccountably sprung a leak. You will join me for the after party, won't you? My personal guests. My mansion has been left somewhat disheveled, but we can get it tidied up."

Will and Elsa exchanged a scared look. They knew that if they put themselves in Gold's power, there was only one way for it to end – but they also knew that there was no way to fight him. He was too strong, too old, too completely without scruple, and as long as they were alive, it was just possible that they could think of something. Resist, and it all ended here.

Elsa cleared her throat. Held out one hand to Will and the other to Anna, and the three of them clutched tightly. "Mr. Gold, sir," she said, with sweetly and sickly poisonous false courtesy. "It would be our honor to join you."


End file.
